Page 42 of Glass Wings

I squeeze her hand back. My throat is too tight for words, but maybe she doesn’t need them.

Across the aisle, Easton looks over, his eyes narrowing in surprise when he sees my mother sitting next to me. His eyes find mine, and for a moment, even with the chains, even with the prosecutor’s voice still droning on, he looks lighter.

My mom leans close, her voice soft but edged with worry as she says, “I really don’t think you should be sitting here every day. It can’t be healthy for you or the baby, being surrounded by all this stress.”

I swallow hard, my eyes still locked on Easton. Maybe she’s right. Maybe this isn’t good for me. But I can’t leave, not when every look, every breath I take, feels like it’s holding him up.

“I can’t sit at home and wonder what’s going on,” I whisper back. “It would eat me alive.”

Her fingers tighten around mine. “You also can’t change whatever the jury decides, Harley.”

I shake my head, my eyes stay fixed on Easton where he sits, chained at the defense table. “No. But maybe if they keep seeing me every day, if they see the life we’ve built and the one growing inside me … maybe they’ll let him come home to me.”

Twenty-Three

HARLEY

Six Weeks Later

The baby will be here in four weeks, and the trial isn’t any closer to a verdict.

By now, my stomach announces itself before I even walk through the courtroom doors. People glance up as I pass the gallery, whispers trailing after me like I can’t hear them. I press a hand over my belly and force myself not to shrink back. If anything, I sit taller. Maybe if they see me, really see me, they’ll understand that Easton isn’t just a case file. He’s a man with a family waiting for him.

It's the defense’s turn now. Rick calls Kennedy first, and she marches to the stand like she’s prepared for war. She answers every question, sharp and steady, her voice unwavering while repeating her earlier testimony—the victim shoved Easton first, after tampering with her drink. The prosecutor tries to rattle her, to paint her as biased, but Kennedy doesn’t flinch. If anything, her stare grows harder.

Then comes the bartender. His testimony isn’t perfect, but it’s enough to show the jury there are cracks in the prosecution’s story. Enough to plant the possibility that maybe, just maybe, Easton isn’t the aggressor they all want to believe he is.

The baby kicks during the testimony, strong enough to make me catch my breath. Hope flickers in my chest with the movement, fragile but real. But fear follows, it’s right there beside it, whispering that juries aren’t always kind, that sometimes they really do only see the record and not the man.

I glance at Easton across the room. He sits straighter than he has in weeks, his eyes locked on me. In that moment, it doesn’t matter how long the trial stretches. We’re both holding on, one heartbeat, one kick, one testimony at a time.

“Do you think I said enough?” Kennedy whispers as she slides back into the bench beside me, her hands still trembling from taking the stand.

“You did more than enough,” I murmur, squeezing her arm. “Thank you for standing up for him.”

She grabs my hand and holds it tight. “He’s a good man, Harls. I’d do anything for the two of you.”

“I hope the jury sees that too.” Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, but I blink them back.

Kennedy leans closer, her voice low but fierce. “With that bartender’s testimony, and the other guy from the bar saying he bragged about spiking the drink, they have to believe it. This isn’t about Easton being violent. It’s about some rich asshole trying to get his way.”

Her words sink into me like a lifeline, but I can’t quite let myself believe it. I press a hand over my belly, feeling another kick as if the baby is also reminding me not to give up hope.

They say time slows when you’re waiting for an answer, but whoever said that has never sat through a trial pregnant. Time doesn’t slow; it throbs. It presses against my ribs and spine and the soft underside of my heart.

Unsurprisingly, the courtroom is too cold and the air tastes like it has been filtered through stone. Same wooden bench. Same scuffed floor. Same seal over the judge’s head.

Different day. One that can either break us or make us whole.

Kennedy slides in beside me and hands me the bottle of water she bullied me into keeping in my bag. “Sip,” she whispers, like she’s talking to a skittish animal.

Behind us, Layla settles a hand between my shoulders, steady as a handrail. His dad sits on my other side, jaw set and wedding band turning around his finger like his hands need something to do. My mother takes the aisle seat. She’s come. Again. She meets my eyes, and for once there isn’t a to-do list hiding in hers. Just worry. Just love.

“All rise,” the bailiff calls, and we all do, the entire room moving like one creature. My back complains. The baby rolls and then goes still, like they, too, are listening intently.

The judge takes his place. The jurors file in; faces blank in that careful way they teach you to keep in poker. I gently press the folded ultrasound photo in my lap. The paper has gone soft at the edges from being held and breathed, the way Dr. Reynolds taught me for when the panic wanted to take control of the steering wheel. In for four. Out for six.

Easton stands when they come in. He’s been in a suit every day of trial, Rick insisted. Shoulders square. Chin up. The tie I chose from a page of photos, navy with a small, stubborn stripe, sits straight against his throat. He doesn’t look at the jury as they take their seats. He looks only at me. One heartbeat. Two. That’s all we got before he turns back because his lawyer touches his sleeve.