Page 52 of A Very Bumpy Christmas
“Hi,” he says, voice wrecked. “Hi, Peanut.”
“Hi,” I whisper to both of them, and the room—this messy, humming, generator-lit room—becomes holy.
I count fingers and toes because that’s the law, but also because counting is how I make sense of joy. Ten and ten. A little mouth like a rosebud and hair that is definitely mine and a nose that is definitely not. The baby blinks, surprised that the world exists,and I introduce us, because that feels polite. “I’m your mom,” I say, awed at the words. “That’s your dad. He’s very good at wedges.”
Lucas laughs and sobs and kisses my hair, my forehead, the baby’s tiny hat. “You did it,” he tells me, like I wrestled the storm and the hospital and time itself. “You did it.”
“We did it,” I correct, dragging him closer with my non-baby hand. “All three of us.”
Dr. Patel is still efficient and reassuring at my feet; Kelley is a blanket magician and a swaddling goddess. The generator hum deepens as the wind howls and I seriously couldn’t be happier.
We call Amelia and Mom from the room that now smells like newness and lemon lotion and sterile hope. “Stay put,” I tell them when they cry. “It’s a boy. A beautiful, perfect little baby boy. We’re safe. We’ll send photos.” It hurts to say don’t come, but it hurts in that good, grown-up way that means I know things now.
Lucas takes a hundred pictures, then a thousand. He narrates them to the baby like color commentary. “This is your mom,” he tells the squirmy burrito in my arms. “She’s the bravest person in any room. She’s also very into lemons.”
I’m floating. I’m anchored. I’m ruined in the best way. The storm outside turns the windows into watercolor. The lights flicker once, flirt with drama, then hold. Our baby boy nuzzles toward my voice like he already knows we’ve been talking this whole time.
I slide my hand into Lucas’s where it rests on the blanket. Our fingers interlace around this tiny human we made by accident and on purpose at the same time. He looks at me with a face Ihaven’t seen before—open, reverent, almost scared of how much can fit in one chest.
21
Lucas
He’s here. He’s real. He’s asleep in a swaddle that makes him look like a very opinionated burrito, one hand fisted at his cheek like he’s already skeptical of our time management.
I have never felt this feeling. Not under fire, not crossing mountain roads at midnight, not at any finish line I’ve ever limped across. It’s like my ribs learned a new setting.
Melanie is propped against pillows, hair in a soft mess, eyes the exact brown that rewired me the night we met. She’s watching our son like she’s memorizing him for a test she’ll happily take forever.
“Okay,” she says, voice hushed and giddy. “We have to stop calling him Peanut now that he has… a face.”
We’ve been dancing around names for days. I sit on the edge of the bed, lay a finger in the tiny palm. He clamps down with a seriousness that wrecks me.
“Say them again,” I tell her, because it feels like a ritual.
She smiles. “Top four: Milo, Leif, Everett, Leo.”
I roll each in my head.Milois soft.Leifis the forest I want to raise him in.Leois light.Everettis evergreen and steady and the man I want to be when he needs one.
“Everett,” I say, and the word sits right in my mouth. “Middle name Leo if you’ll allow it. For light. For—” I nod toward the window, where snow still scrims the world, “—the kind you make yourself when the grid gets weird.”
Mel’s eyes go glassy in the good way. “Everett Leo,” she repeats, tasting it. “Ev for short, if he consents.”
I look down at my son. “Permission to proceed, Ev?”
He squeezes once like he’s stamping a form.
We laugh. We cry. I kiss both their foreheads because I am out of other gestures.
I take a picture that actually looks like what it felt like in that generator-lit room: Mel’s smile, Ev’s scowl, my hand covering both. I fire it into the MADDOX group thread before I can overthink it.
Welcome to the world, Everett Leo Mason. Team member acquired.
ASHER: He’s perfect. Proud of you, brother. Tell Mel she’s a warrior.
GUNNER: I am crying in a surveillance van and I don’t care who knows. Also that kid already looks like he could bench me.
DUKE: Congratulations. Take the moment. We’ve got your flank.
