Page 53 of Glass Wings

Twenty-Six

EASTON

It’s moments like this where I wish I could slow down time and breathe. Too much is happening too fast; the trial just ended, Quinn’s birth was only three days ago, and now the perfect, healthiest baby I ever envisioned is trapped in the NICU. Not to mention Harley’s recovery is a lot more extensive than I ever thought. I feel like I’m running on fumes.

Harley is beyond exhausted, her body stitched and sore, her spirit cracked in ways I don’t know how to mend. I’m no better, but at least I can move, can carry bags and sign papers and pretend I have a grip on it all.

Her doctor pulled me aside before discharge, speaking in that calm clinical tone like this conversation was just another box for him to check off his list. Baby blues. Common. Temporary. Happens to about eighty percent of new mothers.

But knowing it’s normal doesn’t make it easier to watch Harley fade. It doesn’t help me figure out how to hold her together when she can’t look at Quinn without trembling, or when she pushes food around on her plate without taking a bite.

I don’t know how to help her. I don’t know how to help Quinn.

All I know is that both of them need me to be steady, even if I’m also breaking inside.

Harley sits on the edge of the hospital bed, her face pale, one hand braced on the mattress while the other hovers protectively near her incision. Every movement is slow, careful, like her body is made of glass. I crouch in front of her, slipping her shoes onto her feet even though she argues she can do it herself.

“Don’t push it, Little Bird,” I murmur. “I’ve got you.”

Her mouth presses into a thin line, pride warring with exhaustion. She nods once, then lets me slip her arm over my shoulder. I steady her carefully as she rises, her breath catching at the effort. She leans into me, light and trembling, and I hate how fragile she feels in my arms.

The nurse bustles in with a folder of instructions, her voice chipper while she rattles off details about medication schedules, incision care, and diet recommendations. I try to listen, I really do, but it’s all too much. She smiles warmly at me like she knows I wasn’t really listening, and hands me papers with detailed notes and post op care.

Harley doesn’t say word. She’s staring absently at the empty room, and I know she’s thinking about Quinn. There’s no way any of this is normal because we’re leaving the hospital without our little girl.

When the paperwork is signed and the nurse finally leaves us alone, Harley sags against me. I push the wheelchair closer to the bed and help her sit. She keeps her head down, dark hair curtaining her face and arms folded protectively around her middle.

The walk out of the hospital feels wrong. Harley’s supposed to be cradling a pink swaddled baby, and instead, her arms are empty.

I help her into the car, adjusting the seatbelt so it won’t press against her incision. When I close the door and come around to the driver’s side, she’s staring straight ahead, her eyes shining but dry, like she’s run out of tears to cry.

“I feel like I’m abandoning her,” she whispers, voice so soft I almost miss it.

I grip the steering wheel hard enough for my knuckles to turn white. “We’re not abandoning her, the doctor insisted you needed some rest. Quinn is where she needs to be right now. Getting stronger. And we’ll be here every damn day until she’s ready to come home.”

Harley nods, but doesn’t say anything else. She just stares out the window as silent tears slide down her cheeks.

Driving away from the hospital without Quinn feels like all kinds of wrong, but I have to get Harley home, get her rested and recovered, so she’ll be strong enough to take care of our little girl.

Reaching across the console, I find her hand and thread my fingers through hers. Her grip is weak, but it’s there. I hold on, because it’s all I can do.

Kennedy’s waiting for us at the apartment, practically vibrating in place as she holds the door open. The second we cross the threshold she swoops in, arms flapping like she can catch Harley if I so much as loosen my grip on her.

“Careful, careful, oh my God, you’re so pale. Easton, why are you letting her walk this much? She should be lying down!”

Harley gives her a flat look, but it lacks heat. “Kennedy, please.”

I guide Harley past her and toward the couch, but Kennedy is already fussing with blankets, plumping pillows, and muttering under her breath about how we didn’t have enough ginger ale or crackers in the pantry.

“I’ve got it,” I say, sharper than I mean to. Kennedy freezes, blinking at me. Then she steps back with her hands raised.

“Okay, okay. Just trying to help.”

I sigh, softening. “I know. We’re just … tired.”

Kennedy’s expression cracks then, her eyes glossing over. She crouches in front of Harley and squeezes her hand gently. “I know you probably don’t want to hear this right now, but you’re stronger than you think. And Quinn, she’s going to be fine. She’s your little fighter.”

Harley’s throat works, but she doesn’t answer. She leans back into the pillows, her eyes drifting shut, and I tuck a blanket over her before she can argue.