Page 44 of Glass Wings

“Hey,” he says, voice soft around the edges. “Hey, peanut. It’s me.”

“It’s us,” I correct, and he smiles like that one word fixes something. Fixes everything.

Rick clears his throat gently. “I’m going to go do three more things you don’t need to see. If you can manage not to say anything to the press until you’re in a car, I’d appreciate it.” He tucks his folder under his arm and, to my surprise, pulls Easton into a quick, fierce hug. “You earned this.”

“No Rick, you earned this, and I can’t ever repay you or thank you enough,” Easton says back.

We step into the corridor. The courthouse doors are ahead, heavy and glassy, and for a second I think about the first time I walked through them alone … how the building seemed to lean over me like a warning.

We pause just before the threshold. Easton looks at me, one eyebrow lifting in the way it does when he’s asking a question without words. Ready?

I nod. “Ready.”

Outside, sound hits us all at once—traffic, voices, a bird that has the nerve to sing over the courthouse steps like this was any other Tuesday. Reporters are everywhere, but Rick and my mother both step into the angles to protect us.

On the sidewalk, out of the flow, Easton stops. He turns to me, hands lifting and falling like he can’t decide where to put them. On my face, on my shoulders, on the very obvious curve of our future between us. He settles for the oldest place, my left hand, and traces the tiny ridge of ink on the inside of my wrist. The matching tattoo. The promise we made when life was simpler.

“Harley,” he says, “We did it.”

“You did it,” I say. “You told the truth, and you outlasted all the lies.”

He shakes his head, eyes wet again. “We did it,” he repeats, glancing down. “All three of us.”

“We can go home now,” I say, surprised at how solid the words feel coming out of my mouth. For months every plan has been a wish.

“Home,” he echoes. The word sounds new on him, like a shirt you put on and realize you’ve been missing for years.

We walk toward the car. Easton’s mom links her arm through mine. But at the curb, Easton hesitates. He looks back at the building. Not for long, just a glance.

I know that look. It’s the look you give to a place that’s taken something from you, that’s taught you things you didn’t ask to learn. He takes a breath, and then, lets it go.

“Hey,” I say, leaning close so only he could hear. “You don’t owe that place another second. Save all your time for the baby.”

He turns his face toward mine. The sun hits the side of his jaw, and he squints like he’s not used to this much light. “Deal,” he says.

He helps me into the passenger seat gently, carefully, muttering ridiculous comments under his breath about the seatbelt. Before he closes the door, he bends and kisses me, quick and sure. It’s the kind of kiss that says we have time now. When he rounds the other side, he doesn’t look back again.

As we pull away, I press my hand to my belly, and Easton lays his over mine, fingers lacing in the space that will soon be occupied by something much smaller … and louder. The courthouse disappears from the mirror, and I feel like I can finally breathe.

“Tell me everything I missed,” he says, voice a little hoarse, like he’s been swallowing sand and is finally able to drink water again.

“Start with the kicks?” I ask.

“Start with the kicks,” he agrees.

So, I do. I tell him about how it felt when our baby rolled for the first time and how I thought I’d imagined it. I tell him about the heartbeats and the hiccups. I tell him about the names we circled, and the ridiculous ones Kennedy keeps teasing us about even considering. I tell him about therapy and how I’m working on my relationship with food still, no matter how difficult it is.

He listens, keeping his hand over mine like he’s anchoring both of us to the same place.

Twenty-Four

EASTON

I’m still not used to the silence of my own space. No metal doors clanging shut, no guards shouting count, no stale air pumping through vents that never seem to work. Just peace and quiet.

I sit on the edge of the bed, fingers curling in the sheets like they might disappear if I let go. I spent way too many nights lying awake on a thin mattress dreaming of this bed, this room. Harley. And now that I’m here, I can’t shake the fear that I’ll wake up back in a cell if I close my eyes for too long. I’ll blink, and it’ll all be gone.

Harley enters the room, as if hearing my thoughts, and crosses the distance between us. Her steps are slow, steady, and at thirty-four weeks, her belly is leading the way. My chest tightens at the sight of her, all swollen and beautiful, carrying the proof of our love while I’ve been chained away.