Page 41 of Glass Wings

They want the jury to see a man worth believing in, not just another file in a stack of cases. But I don’t need the suit to see that. I already know.

To me, he is more than polished fabric and arguments. He is the man who kisses me like I’m oxygen. The man who has been stripped of everything, yet still manages to love me with what little he has left.

The chains at his wrists ruin the illusion though. Every time the metal glints under the lights, it makes my stomach twist. No matter how perfectly he looks on the outside, they still see him as dangerous. They don’t see the way his eyes soften when they find mine, or the way his shoulders square, like just having me in the room gives him strength.

For just a moment, everything goes quiet. The lawyers, the judge, the shuffle of papers, it all fades until it’s just us, like it’s always been. Him and me, and the life we’ve made, kicking inside of me.

Then the prosecutor’s voice cuts through, sharp and unforgiving, dragging the room back into focus. Words like record and repeat offense and risk to society ring out, each one slicing across the distance between us. I hate how clinical they make him sound. To them, he is a case number, a headline waiting to happen.

I want so desperately to shout at them as I continue my walk to the benches, to tell them they had it all wrong. But instead, I fold my hands tightly over my stomach, my nails digging crescents into my skin. Because breaking down won’t help him. Crying won’t sway a jury. All I can do is sit here, steady as stone, and pray they’ll see what I see.

I slide into the front row of the gallery, my palms damp against the polished wood. My stomach feels stretched too tight, every muscle in my back aching from holding myself together.

Kennedy drops into the bench behind me, close enough that I can hear the snap of her gum and the rustle of her skirt as she crosses her legs. “Breathe, Harls,” she whispers, low enough so no one else can hear. “They’re not half as scary as they think they are.”

I almost smile. Almost.

Her voice is a lifeline, though, something normal in a room that feels anything but. I keep my eyes forward, on Easton, but I know if I falter, if my resolve cracks even for a second, Kennedy is right there to catch me.

When the prosecutor starts droning, sharp and smug, Kennedy leans forward.

“That haircut screams midlife crisis,” she murmurs. I don’t laugh, not out loud, but the corners of my lips betray me. The tiniest curve. The tiniest reminder that I’m not here alone.

Easton sees it. His eyes lock on mine, like my half-smile is the first breath of air he’s gotten all day. And suddenly, the chains on his wrists seem less like prison and more like paper.

The trial drags on. The prosecutor throws words like risk and record as if they are facts written in stone. Rick fires back, steady and measured, trying to chip away at the picture they painted of Easton. My hands tighten over my belly, grounding myself in the steady thump inside me.

Kennedy’s nails tap a slow rhythm against the pew, I know she’s anxious about getting called to the stand again, but also that she’s worried about me and the baby. I don’t even have to turn around to know she’s giving me that look. The one that says everything is going to be okay.

I want to believe her.

Because in this moment, it doesn’t matter how sharp the prosecutor’s words are or how loud the gavel sounds. What matters is Easton’s eyes on mine, steady and unyielding. What matters is the quiet strength pressed into my back by my best friend’s presence.

I’m not breaking. Not today. Pregnancy emotions be damned.

Two weeks.

Two weeks of sitting on the same hard, wooden bench while strangers stand at the front of the room and decide who Easton is. Two weeks of watching them pick apart his past like vultures circling bones, ignoring the man I know for the mistakes they think define him.

The prosecution is relentless. Medical records, hospital charts, photos of bruises blown up larger than life. They parade character witnesses to the stand, people who barely knew Easton but still manage to twist a story that fits the prosecutor’s script. Words like “violent tendencies” and “repeat offender” float across the courtroom, staining the air.

Every time they say it, I want to scream. Instead, I sit still, my hands pressing against the baby who has started to move more each day. A steady reminder that there is life still growing while everything else seems frozen in this endless cycle of accusation and defense.

My back aches constantly now. The benches feel harder with every session, and no matter how I shift, it is impossible to get comfortable. The baby presses against my ribs, kicking as if in protest right along with me. My ankles swell in my shoes, and even simple things like standing when the judge enters makes me feel unsteady.

And still, I show up. Every day.

Kennedy stays close, whispering sharp commentary under her breath every time a witness tries to smear Easton’s name. But this morning when I slide into the second row, I freeze.

My mom is here.

She sits prim and composed, hands folded in her lap. I can sense her unease as she looks around the room, her sharp blue eyes assessing. At first, I think maybe I’m imagining her, but when her eyes lift and meet mine, she smiles. A small, uncertain smile, but real nonetheless.

I hesitate before sitting down beside her. She reaches for my hand, hesitantly, like she isn’t sure she has the right.

“I wanted to be here,” she whispers. “For you and the baby.”

Something cracks in my chest, something fragile but deep. For years I’d convinced myself I’d never see her choose me over her work, over her appearances in society. And now, here she is, sitting through testimonies that made polite society shift in their seats.