Page 40 of Glass Wings

Harley, you look like an angel even from forty feet away. When the deputy tugged me, I watched your hands go to your belly, and I wanted to crawl out of my skin and build you a chair with pillows and keep you from ever having to sit on those benches again. I can’t do that yet. I can only breathe and behave and let Rick swing at the right pitches.

I thought about the bikes today. The way time felt infinite and everything was perfect.

Tell Kennedy thank you, and let her help you with the nursery, you need to start preparing like I won’t be there … I hate to be the one to say it but at least I know you have a team of people there to support you in my absence.

I love you.

Always,

Easton.

When Harris makes his last pass, I slide the letter out.

Lights drop to night level. The hum softens. I lie on my back and map the cracks on the ceiling again. Tonight, they don’t look like lightning. They look like roads. I pick one that runs straight and true and ride it until sleep puts my mind at ease and takes mercy on me.

Twenty-Two

HARLEY

Four Weeks Later

Entering the third trimester is supposed to be an exciting time.

It means the baby will be here soon, that I’ll finally hold them in my arms instead of just feeling the kicks and rolls inside me. But, instead of nursery colors and baby showers, it’s a reminder of something else, something that makes dread curl in my stomach.

The trial for Easton’s case is starting today.

Kennedy and I have spent the last four weeks buying baby furniture, painting walls, assembling changing stations, and decorating the nursery. Easton’s parents bought most of the furniture, his dad tackled the crib and dresser while us ladies fussed over curtains and tiny baskets for diapers.

It was really hard to do without Easton.

Every time I taped off the wall for another coat of paint or folded a onesie into the dresser drawer, I thought about how he should be here. He should be the one rolling the crib into place, tightening bolts with a focused look on his face, and laughing when Kennedy argued with me about whether yellow or sage green was the better accent color.

Instead, it’s me and my belly, stretching bigger every day, trying not to cry when I picture him missing these moments.

I’d sit on the rocking chair sometimes, after everyone left, rocking slow in the quiet, as the faint scent of fresh paint and baby powder filled the room. My hand would rest on my stomach as the baby kicked, and I’d whisper promises I’m still not sure I can keep.

Daddy will be here. He’ll hold you. He’ll be home.

Easton’s mom caught me once, tears slipping down my face while I folded a blanket. She didn’t say anything, just hugged me tight, her hands rubbing circles across my back. It was the closest thing to having him there, beside me, in the flesh, but it still wasn’t enough.

Kennedy had even thrown me a baby shower with my mom and Layla. It wasn’t anything crazy, just the four of us crowded around the living room with mock cocktails, finger sandwiches, and a playlist of old pop songs humming in the background. But it was everything I needed.

For a few hours that day, I was just a soon-to-be mom opening pastel gift bags and laughing so hard my cheeks hurt.

Between my mom and Layla, they bought everything I could possibly need. Diapers stacked high in neat towers, bottles and burp cloths, a breast pump I blushed over when Kennedy waved it in the air like a prize. Andy even came by afterward to fit the car seat into the back of my car, his hands steady where mine had shook.

I caught myself imagining Easton there, more than once. Sitting beside me, teasing me about all the tiny outfits, sneaking sips of the mocktails and complaining there wasn’t any real alcohol in them. I could almost hear his laugh in the spaces between those around me, almost feel his hand on my back when the baby shifted hard enough to steal my breath.

It made me ache, but it also reminded me I wasn’t alone. Not really. His family has stepped in for him. My mom has softened, supporting me in ways I never thought she would. Even Kennedy, who used to drive me crazy, has become my fiercest cheerleader.

Yet, still, under all the warmth and gifts and laughter, there was this hollow place inside me that only Easton could fill. Every time I look at the pile of baby things, I want him here to see it. To see how loved our child already is. To see how desperately I’m holding on for him.

My hand drifts to my stomach as I walk into the courthouse, the weight of my child pressing against me with every step. The air inside is cool, almost too much so, but sweat gathers at the back of my neck. Everyone’s eyes find me, or maybe it just feels that way. I know what they see, a twenty-five-year-old girl with a swollen belly, standing up for a man most of them already believe is guilty.

Still, my breath catches when I see him.

He looks so handsome in the suit Rick insisted he wear, everything thoughtfully put together to present him in a certain way to the jury. The tie is straight, the collar is crisp, and even his hair is trimmed to hide the months of stress written in the set of his jaw.