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Hudson and Darlene left, and Honey found herself alone with a father she’d longed to call her own since she was a little girl. He was a shadow of the man she’d met the year before. His skin was sallow, and he’d lost so much weight, he barely made an impression in the king-size bed. She heard his breathing from where he stood. It rattled and banged against his chest like a ghost with chains.
She approached the bed and stopped beside him just as his eyes opened. She wasn’t sure he knew who she was, but a small smile tugged at his mouth, and he struggled to sit up.
“No, don’t,” Honey said gently. She sat in the chair Darlene had vacated. “Please, John. Just rest.”
He cleared his throat, and she helped him drink some water from the glass on the table beside his bed. After a few minutes, he spoke, his voice scratchy as if unused.
“I know your face.”
“Yes.”
“You have my eyes.”
She found herself nodding and whispered, “Yes.”
He looked desperate, in that way that people who are dying do. It was a feverish glow to the eye, a yearning in the expression. John Blackwell had never been a man to mince words. To say more than he had to in order to convey his meaning. There was no reason to start now.
“I never loved your mother. I barely knew her.” His words were direct and honest. John’s eyes were bright with unshed tears. “But I would have loved you. That I know. You are beautiful and kind and generous. Nash is a lucky man.” He smiled then, a sad sort of thing, and she felt his fingers loosen as if the last of his strength was slipping away. “I wish I had more time.”
“Maybe… Regan said you’ve rallied before. There’s always hope.”
“Just a fool’s hope now.” His chest rattled as he exhaled, and she took the cloth beside his bed and gently cleaned the paper-thin skin on his forehead. John settled back onto his pillows and closed his eyes. “I’ll see my Angel soon, and all those who’ve gone before me. God willing.” Again, his chest rattled, and Honey winced at the sound. He must be in incredible pain. All because he wanted to be lucid enough to talk to her.
“I wish you a happy life, my girl.”
Those were the last words John Blackwell uttered. He slipped into unconsciousness and passed away three hours later.
A week later at the celebration of his life, he was remembered as a generous man who gave to the community. As a family man who was devoted to his wife and children. There was no mention of Honey because she wouldn’t have it. She didn’t want gossip at his funeral. Nor did she want those who would judge coloring his legacy, taking away from all the good he’d done for those less fortunate than him. In the end, she stood with the Blackwell men, her brothers, and ignored the curious stares. With Nash at her side, she felt fearless. And with a hand on her stomach, her child kicking restlessly inside her, Honey laid her father to rest. A man who would have loved her.
It was the circle of life, and she was glad to be part of it. It meant she belonged.
It meant everything.
Epilogue
Nash Booker was the kind of man who worked well under pressure. Not much fazed him. He looked at a situation. Assessed it. And did what he had to do to reach the end game. It worked well in sports. Hell, when he played football, he could read the field like no one’s business and make the play happen as cool as could be. Skydiving? He’d lost count of the number of planes he’d jumped out of. Scuba diving at night? Again, no problem. Heck, rush-hour traffic was more intense than any of his pastimes. But having a baby? That was something he’d never navigated before, and it was about to send him over the edge.
Oh, the labor and delivery had been fine—as far as he could tell. Honey was a champion. She’d pulled through with flying colors, and he’d never been so damn proud of anyone in his life. She’d been fierce and beautiful, and when she’d held their son for the first time, Nash’s heart nearly broke in two.
He had no idea of the depth of the love that lived inside him until this moment. And, in equal measures, the fear. It took hold of him as Honey slept, and he’d been pacing their private room for at least ten minutes now, casting furtive glances at the small bundle in blue beside her bed.
Gabriel John Booker.
; His son.
Damn, he was responsible for a small, tiny, little human. Worse yet, he was expected to pick him up and actually hold the little guy in his arms. The baby weighed eight pounds, for Christ’s sake, and his neck was like a wet noodle. What if he didn’t know how to hold him the right way? What if he dropped him?
A cold sweat chilled on Nash’s forehead, and he swiped at it as he approached the bassinette. Two blue eyes stared up at him, blinking slowly, as if to say, I’ve been here before. Not a big deal.
Right. Easy for you to say, Nash thought.
The little guy was swaddled up like he was baby Moses. Gabriel had been born with thick dark hair, but most of that was hidden beneath a knitted blue hat, and that wouldn’t do. Nash grabbed his knapsack from the chair beside the door and retrieved something special. He approached the bassinette once again, carefully, slowly, as if he were stalking a baby lion in the wild.
Those two blue eyes sill looked up at him, though the little face scrunched up something fierce. Nash prepared for some god-awful screaming (because isn’t that what babies did?), but Gabriel yawned and then settled back to watching his daddy.
Carefully, Nash reached in and slid off the knitted hat, replacing it with the special-order Buffalo Bills’ one he’d gotten just the day before. He stood back and nodded. Now his kid looked like a Booker.
