Page 95 of The Game Plan
“I feel like I’m barely holding it together,” I admit. “Like any second, I’m going to screw something up. Forget to submit an assignment or do something that screwsherup.”
He turns so we’re almost nose to nose with how close we are. “You’re doing fucking incredible.”
I blink away the tears burning my eyes. “Sometimes…sometimes I feel like…like I don’t deserve her. Or you. Like one morning, I’m going to wake, and it’s all going to be a fever dream.”
His eyes soften as he cradles the side of my face. “Baby. This isn’t a dream, and we’re not going anywhere. We’re going to fumble along the way, but that’s life, Sav. We’re going to learn and grow and figure it outtogether.”
Together. Damn, I like the sound of that. Grant’s always known what it’s like to be a part of a team. I’ve never had that luxury, not until now. Between my aunt and cousin, our friends, his sister, and his family, we’ve made quite the team, and I’venever felt more blessed to have people on the sidelines rooting for me—forus.
“Is this what normal feels like?”
“Normal is an illusion, Peach.”
“Okay, is this what stable feels like? Having a home where the other person wants to be at home with you? Bringing you dinner and snuggling next to you because they want to?”
Grant nuzzles his nose in the crook of my neck. “Yeah, baby. This is what love feels like in a stable home, and you’ll never have to worry about me coming home. I promise, this is where I want to be. If I could spend my entire life right here with you two, I would. My heart belongs to you, and I’ll shower you with my love until my last breath. You’ll never have to question my loyalty, Savannah. I’m not your parents. I’m not your past. I’m your future. As long as you’ll have me.”
This man has a way with words.
“You’re mine and I’m yours, Mr. Campbell.”
The monitor next to our bed crackles. And like clockwork, the cry comes. Every night around three o’clock, Lennon wakes, crying for a feeding. A second cry sounds, and I sit up, scratching the sleep from my eyes. Glancing beside me, I’m met with an empty spot where Savannah should be sleeping.
She must not have come to bed, which means she’s fallen asleep on the couch again. It seems to be her favorite place to sleep lately, and I can’t help the sting of frustration that zips through me.
I roll out of bed and stumble my way to Lennon’s room. As I pass the opening to the rest of the apartment, I see a sleeping form on the couch lit by the soft glow of the floor lamp. Her laptop, textbooks, and notebooks are scattered on the coffee table and the cushions next to where she’s snuggled in a blanket. A red pen dangles from the top of her ear.
Sav’s running on fumes, even though she won’t admit it. Between taking care of Lennon and working through her course assignments, I worry she isn’t taking enough time for herself. I’ve done the research and know how postpartum depressionand anxiety can sneak up on someone. I’ve memorized the signs, and a few small things have already triggered my awareness. Even while working herself to the bone, I can’t help but be proud of her. She’s determined not to let her grades slip and to graduate after the fall semester.
I hope she doesn’t burn out in the process. Leaving her to sleep, I step into the nursery, where I’m met with Lennon’s soft cries.
“Hi, my little Lemon,” I softly call out so she knows I’m here. As I move to the crib, Lennon lets an arm escape her swaddle. Her face is scrunched in her signature look and her cries ricochet around us.
“There’s my pretty girl,” I whisper, scooping her into my arms. “Let’s go get you a bottle, yeah?”
Her cries don’t stop, but they soften as she twists in my arms. I bounce her gently, trying to calm her as I head into the kitchen. Lennon’s eyes squint under the glow of the lamp, so I shift her tighter against me to shield her vision from the invasive light. I move through the steps of making a bottle with one hand. It’s one thing I’ve mastered despite the lack of my left hand. I’ve cooked dinner, cleaned the apartment, and folded laundry with one hand. The laundry isn’t perfect, but at least it isn’t a crumpled mess. Within minutes, the bottle is ready, and as soon as the nipple reaches her mouth, Lennon finds it, latching on and instantly calming.
“Good girl,” I praise as I walk back to her nursery and settle in on the rocking chair my mom gave us. It was the one she used to rock me and Bret when we were babies.
The room is quiet now, save for the soft slurping from the bottle. I rock smoothly in the chair, staring down at my daughter. With a burp cloth, I wipe away the milky drool that slips free, catching it before it falls into the crease of her neck. There’s nothing worse than milk trapped under her chin.
“It feels like you’ve always been here, Lennon. It’s like the world knew we needed you,” I whisper. Her blue eyes stare at me as if she’s registering everything I’m saying. “I’d burn the world down for you, baby girl.”
She gives a tiny milky smile, and my heart skips a beat. As she finishes the bottle, I pull the nipple free, dab at the loose milk, and toss the burp cloth over my shoulder. Carefully, I adjust her so she rests on my shoulder and start patting her back. I hum a familiar tune while waiting for her to burp, and she lets out a loud, rumbly one against my chest, making me chuckle.
“Whoa, that was a big one, Lem.”
She nuzzles into my neck, and I continue rocking her as I start singing the words to John Lennon’s “Beautiful Boy,” but I change the lyrics toBeautiful Girlinstead ofBeautiful Boy. Savannah has been playing his music on repeat. He’s her comfort artist, and his lyrics have rubbed off on me. With my eyes closed, I let the words flow freely as I sit here in silence. I savor the weight of her in my arms as I feel the rise and fall of her chest against mine.
Night feedings make for long days, but these are my favorite moments. When it’s the two of us spending time together. Lost in my thoughts in the stillness of the night, I’m always hit with the fact that this is my reality. At twenty-two, I’m a dad to the most beautiful girl in the world. I’m married to a hardworking and caring woman. I get to spend the rest of my life with them.
I hum against her head, pressing a kiss to her temple as I finish singing the song. Movement at the doorway pulls my attention.
“How long have you been up?”
Sav’s leaning against the doorway, arms folded across her chest, dressed in one of my t-shirts that hangs loosely.
“Not too long,” I whisper.
