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“No fucking way.”Never again.
* * *
If I wasn’t in love with Sunday already, watching her give birth to my daughter would do it. For an entire day, I actively stopped myself from telling her I loved her, bit my tongue so hard and so often, I’m surprised it’s not a bleeding mess.
She was… fuck, she did so good. I struggle to find adequate words, really, as much as I struggle to breathe over the knot in my chest as I cradle my daughter, my healthy, beautiful daughter, and watch her healthy, beautiful mother sleep.
Barely a half hour after passing out, Sunday wakes with a soft, sleepy smile to match soft, sleepy eyes. One hand lifts, flashing the IV in her hand as she makes a soft, sleepy gesture. “Gimme.”
I oblige quickly, but I’m not entirely selfless. Once the baby is safely in Sunday’s arms, I nudge her gently, and she must still be a little high because she raises no arguments as I carefully climb onto the bed beside her, beside them. Sunday is definitely high, I decide when she slumps against me. “Did you sleep?”
“Nah.”
“You should.”
“No way.” I graze a knuckle over the perfect, pink cheek of my daughter. I’m nowhere near sleep deprived enough to miss out on this, on her. My perfect little girl.
“She looks like you.”
I can’t help but smile. “Yeah?”
“Mirror image.” Sunday sighs a noise I can’t quite decipher; resigned amusement, maybe. “Got a little August in her too.”
Cocking my head at our daughter, I smile harder. “Definitely.”
Like she knows we’re talking about her, she spits out a cry, so loud for such a tiny little thing. “That’s all you.”
“Gee, thanks.”
I laugh, my head instinctively dipping until my lips meet a bare shoulder. “How’re you feeling? Need anything?”
“I’m good,” she says, gazing at our daughter as if she’ll never need anything but her again.
As I gaze at the two of them, I can’t say I don’t feel the same way.
“You were amazing, Sunday. I…” I suck in a deep breath, swallowing hard over the lump in my throat. “Thank you.”
Sunday says nothing but the weight of her against me increases, her head falling to my shoulder as her forehead presses against the curve of my neck, the tips of her fingers touching mine as she traces our kid’s tiny, delicate features too. She lets me wrap an arm around her shoulders and fold the other beneath hers as they cradle the baby so I can hold both my girls.
It’s perfect, this is so perfect, I don’t think it can get anymore perfect, but then the door opens and a young boy creeps into the dimly lit room, the apprehension written all over him quickly eradicated with a summoning wave of his mother’s hand. “C’mere, Goose. Meet your sister.”
So carefully, August perches beside Sunday and peers at his baby sister while Sunday and I peer at him, gauging his reaction. “Woah,” he murmurs quietly, wide eyes flicking up to me. “She looks like you.”
Sunday nudges me.Told you.
“Did you name her?”
“Not yet.” Sunday shifts, wriggling an arm free so she can hold both her children at once. “Any ideas?”
August sighs, chewing on his lip thoughtfully. “I thought,” he starts, stops, sighs again. “I thought if I’m named after the month I was born, she should be too, right?”
Sunday’s nose wrinkles. “September?”
“It’s October,” I correct her. Somewhere between her water breaking and Sunday starting to push, a new month began. “October Lane.”
Sunday repeats the suggestion with a smile, and something in my chest eases, some cosmic sense ofrightsettling. “I like it.”
“Me too,” I confirm when she looks at me for approval, jokingly adding, “October Monday Lane?”
