Page 106 of Promise

“You were racing again.” I pause, trying to catch my breath. Visions of the crash still linger in my head. The flames. Dart. “You were in an accident.”

Just saying it sets my heart raging. “And you crashed. The car caught fire. And the flames . . .” I gasp for air, breathing heavily again.

“The flames,” I choke, falling toward Dart, who catches me, tugging me to his side.

“I’m right here, baby. I’m safe.” I wrap my arms around his middle, clinging to him.

“It was so scary,” I admit. “I’m scared.”

He pets my hair and strokes my back. “I got you. You have me.”

But did I have him? For how much longer?

Dart falls to his back, taking me with him, and continues to hold me as I hold him.

Another groan of thunder. A crack of lightning. Mirabelle cries out again.

“Is it silly that I want her closer?” I whisper, wanting to gather everything I love near me.

Dart shakes his head. “I’ll get her.” He crawls toward the end of the bed again and lifts Mirabelle, settling her to his chest.

“Shh, baby girl. I got you. Dart is here.”

Dart. Will she call him Dart? Or should she call him something else?

The thought is not for now. He brings Mirabelle to me, and I tuck her against my heart, lounging back on pillows he props against the headboard. I know all the reasons why you shouldn’t place an infant in a bed, but I want to hold her, keep her close for a little while.

I want Dart close as well, and as if he read my thoughts, he scoots lower on the bed, but wraps his arms around my stomach, laying his head on my chest as well.

“We’re all safe,” he says, whispering to Mirabelle. “We’re all here.”

Everything I love is in this bed, I tell myself. Everyone I love.

Because I love Dart. And I love Mirabelle.

And I don’t ever want to lose either of them.

In the morning, I’m headed back to work after a handful of tears and extra kisses for Mirabelle.

The morning is a rush of reacclimating myself with the nurse’s station, being assigned a pod—a section of three private incubators with newborn infants—and getting stopped by co-workers endlessly asking about Mirabelle.

Most people only know I’m adopting an infant. I don’t share how she was born right in this unit to a young mother, or how Mirabelle came to me. The story needs to settle. It doesn’t matter how Mirabelle came to me, only that she will be mine one day soon. Only a few more months.

When Mirabelle is older, perhaps I’ll tell her about how she ended up on my back porch, maybe make a little fairy tale out of it.

The beautiful stork who delivered her.

The innocent maiden, willing to give her to me.

The protective mama bear I became.

It’s a work in progress.

And not even an hour into my shift, I get a text message from Dart.

When is your break?

I instantly burst into laughter, easing all the tension of the morning. The text reminds me of the first one he sent me, which I surmise is his intention. With a quick response, I tell him the time and get back to work, almost forgetting about the message when a new baby boy is brought to my pod.