Page 166

And then the room goes still again.

Not the uncomfortable kind of silence. Not the kind that begs to be filled with fake laughter or fast words.

This is the kind of quiet that only comes when grief has wrung you dry—and you’ve finally, finally stopped resisting the ache.

Eventually, I tuck Kingston into the bassinet beside the bed and help Reese settle Kody into the other. We move like women who’ve been doing this their whole lives, even though we’ve only just learned how. There’s a rhythm to the way we move around each other now—two survivors with battle scars that haven’t fully faded.

I moved the twins’ bassinets into Reese and Thorin’s room the day she came home. It wasn’t a question, just instinct—like my body knew before my brain caught up that she shouldn’t have to sleep in silence. Not that kind of silence. The kind that presses on your chest and whispers about everything you’ve lost. The kind that reminds you what used to be growing inside you… isn’t.

So now, her room isn’t just a room. It’s filled with the soft sound of two tiny heartbeats, the rustle of newborn dreams, the occasional sigh of baby breath. A lullaby made of life.

Something to hold on to when the grief creeps in.

Something to remind her she’s not alone.

Not tonight. Not ever.

Later, when the boys are asleep and the house is dipped in shadows and hush, I curl up on the edge of Reese’s bed, a mug of lukewarm tea in my hands. She’s lying on her side, facing me, her arm draped over a pillow like it might anchor her to this moment.

“You sleeping at all?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

I shrug. “You know me. Night owl. Anxiety-fueled insomniac. Living the dream.”

She huffs a laugh—barely there, but it’s something. “You look tired.”

“You look like you’ve been through hell.”

“I have,” she says simply. “But I’m still here.”

I nod. “I’m glad you are.”

We fall quiet again, and it stretches—slow, aching, patient. I sip my tea, stare at the moonlight painting stripes across the floorboards.

Then she asks, “Did you ever think it would be like this?”

I glance at her. “Like what?”

“This… life. Us. Here. With babies and broken hearts and a goddamn tour bus parked at the bottom of the hill.”

A slow smile tugs at my mouth. “Not in a million years.”

“I thought I’d be the one who had it all together,” she admits, eyes glassy. “The one with the plan. The stable relationship. The timeline.”

“You did.”

“Yeah. And then life laughed in my face and handed me a broken timeline, an empty womb, and grief for a baby I never even got to hold.”

I swallow hard. “You don’t have to say it like that.”

“It’s true,” she whispers. “And if I don’t say it out loud, it eats me from the inside out.”

I reach across the space between us, linking our pinkies like we used to do when we were seventeen and heartbroken over boys who didn’t know what to do with girls like us.

“You’re allowed to be angry,” I tell her. “You’re allowed to mourn, and scream, and want space. You’re allowed to grieve something the world won’t even acknowledge was real.”

Her eyes fill again, but she doesn’t cry. Not this time.

She just looks at me, raw and open and maybe even a little lighter.