Page 43 of Glass Wings

“Madam Foreperson,” the judge says, voice even, “has the jury reached a verdict?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

My fingers go numb. I curl them around the paper in my lap, holding the grainy outline in an attempt to ground myself in something that can neither be argued into or out of existence.

The foreperson stands. A woman in a cardigan, hair pinned back like she’s been pinning it back for forty years. She clears her throat, and the sound rattles.

“In the matter of the State versus Easton Ryder Diggs, on the charge of felony assault, we the jury find the defendant … not guilty.”

The words don’t land at first. They hover above us like birds that haven’t decided where to settle. Not guilty. The room inhales. Someone behind me sobs once, an unpolished sound. It might have been me.

“Order,” the judge says, though nothing has exploded yet. He looks at Easton. “Mr. Diggs, you are discharged. You are free to go.”

The bench under me disappears. That’s what it feels like. My knees wobble. Kennedy’s hand grabs my elbow and Easton’s mother’s hand slides up my spine like a brace. Easton doesn’t move. He blinks once, twice, as if he needs to hear the words in a second language to believe them. Rick leans over and says something I can’t hear, something that makes Easton’s mouth part. The tiniest breath of a grin, shock more than joy, breaks his face open.

“Court is adjourned,” the judge adds, softer than I’ve ever heard him, like even he wants to be a decent human for a second. The gavel taps once. It doesn’t crack this time. It blesses.

The jurors look anywhere but at us. The prosecutor gathers her files with the precision of someone who hates losing and will be filing the feeling away to visit later. Rick shakes hands with nobody and everybody, already turning to shield Easton with his body.

And then the bailiff does the only thing I have prayed for since this all started. He steps closer to Easton and unfastens the small silver cuff on his wrist.

My body moves without consulting my brain. I’m down the aisle before anyone can stop me, one hand on the rail, the other cradling my belly, careful but certain.

“Ma’am—” the bailiff starts, a reflex, but we’re already on the other side of this line they pretend exists. Easton turns at the sound of my steps, and then his arms are around me. His face buries in my hair like he’s been underwater for months and I’m the oxygen he needs to survive. He inhales so hard it tugs at my roots, and I laugh and cry at the same time, overcome with emotion.

“Careful,” he says into my ear, hands spreading instinctively across my back, one lower on my spine and one between my shoulders, the way he’s always held me when being extra gentle. “Careful with our baby.”

“We’re okay,” I say. “We’re okay.” The words shake, but they’re true. For the first time in forever, they’re true.

He pulls back just enough to look at me. Up close he looks wrecked in the most beautiful way—eyes red-rimmed, a nick on his jaw from a nervous shave, lines in the corners of his mouth that weren’t there a few months ago. He cups my face with both hands, thumbs swiping at tears I can’t stop, and kisses my forehead like a prayer.

“I told you I’d come home,” he whispers.

“I always believed you,” I whisper back.

Kennedy barrels into us next. She hugs us both in a tangle of limbs and whispers curses before stepping back to wipe her eyes with the heel of her hand.

“If you ever make her sit on that bench this long again, I will personally glue you to it,” she tells Easton.

“I missed you too,” he says, voice rough, smiling at her in a way that says thank you for being her rock when I couldn’t.

Layla reaches us, her hands over her mouth and tears shining. Then those hands are on her son’s face, checking if he is real. “My boy,” she says, voice breaking on the last word. His father doesn’t say anything at first, just folds Easton into a hug like a man closing a trunk after packing it exactly right. When he pulls back, he lifts his chin and puts a hand on my shoulder.

“Let’s get you both out of here.”

We have to, technically, go through a door and down a hall to sign things. Freedom, it turns out, still requires paperwork. Rick keeps a hand between us and the questions being fired from reporters that never seemed to end.

“No comment, no comment, thank you,” he mutters as we walk. Someone from a local station lifts a camera, and my mom, of all people, steps between me and the lens.

“Not today.” she says, calm and terrifying.

In a small room that tries to be cheerful with a potted plant dying in the corner, a deputy slides a plastic bin onto the counter.

“Property. Wallet. Keys. Watch.” He ticks items off a list. Easton signs his name like it’s a test he’s studied for far too long. The deputy pushes a paper toward him. “Release acknowledgment.”

Another signature, the pen shakes just enough to make my throat hurt.

“How’s the baby?” he asks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes dropping to my belly like he needs to see it move to believe in anything else. The baby rolls once, pressing a heel or an elbow against my palm. Easton’s face changes. He reaches out like he’s asking a skittish animal for permission, and when I nod, he places his hand there. The kick comes again, and he sucks in a breath, eyes going bright.