Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Angel
Idon’t let myself hope. That’s the rule I make in my head the second Stevie says her body is “talking.” I nod.
I listen. I hold her hand and keep my voice steady.
But inside, I build a wall brick by brick, because hope has teeth and I’ve seen what it does when it turns.
I stay grounded. Measured. Present. But something’s different.
It’s not what she says. It’s how she says it.
Calm.
Not frantic.
Not bargaining.
She isn’t trying to force her body to confess.
She isn’t clinging to the future like it owes her something.
She’s listening.
And that alone scares me more than any positive test ever could.
Because it feels… real.
We don’t touch the test that night. It stays in the bathroom drawer, not hidden, not displayed. Just there. Maybe, a quiet question mark we both agree not to interrogate.
We eat dinner like normal. Talk about nothing important. The weather. A new job coming through Havoc Security. Pandora yelling at Tank for something stupid he probably deserved. Normal. It feels sacred.
When we go to bed, Stevie curls into me without hesitation.
No tension.
No edge.
Her forehead presses to my chest, and I wrap my arms around her like this moment is enough even if tomorrow rips it away. That’s new for me. Before, I would’ve been calculating timelines in my head. Counting days. Bracing. Now, I focus on her breathing.
The appointment is three days later. Three days of quiet check-ins of watching her eat breakfast again.
Laugh once at something dumb on TV. Stand at the sink washing dishes like she belongs there.
Like she never left. I don’t hover. But I notice everything.
The way her hand rests low on her stomach sometimes, not gripping, not pleading.
I ride us to the clinic because she asks me to. Says she wants the wind in her hair, to feel the road under her bones. I don’t argue. She wraps her arms around my waist and leans into me like she trusts the road again. That’s bigger than she probably realizes.
The clinic parking lot feels too small for what we’re carrying.
Inside, the waiting room smells like antiseptic and burnt coffee.
A TV mounted too high plays some daytime talk show no one’s watching.
A couple sits across from us whispering, their knees pressed together like they’re trying to become one person.
Stevie’s knee bounces. I lace my fingers through hers and feel the tremor there.
“You can let go if you need to,” I murmur.
She shakes her head. “Don’t.” So, I don’t.
The nurse calls her name. Stevie stands first, she’s braver than I feel. The exam room is dim when the ultrasound machine hums to life. The sound hits something in my chest I wasn’t ready for.
I focus on Stevie’s face instead of the screen. I’ve learned that lesson. Her breath hitches when the wand presses against her belly. Her fingers dig into mine hard enough to hurt. Good, pain I understand.
The doctor is kind. That matters more than I expected. She moves the wand slowly, clicking keys, measuring shadows I can’t interpret. The seconds stretch. Stevie’s breathing gets shallow. I lean in, press my shoulder to hers, ground us both. Then the doctor pauses.
“Okay,” she says softly. “I’m seeing something.”
My heart slams into my ribs so hard I think she might hear it. Stevie’s eyes snap to mine.
“Is—” she starts.
“Just a second,” the doctor says gently. “I want to measure.”
Time becomes elastic. Every click of the keyboard is thunder. The doctor studies the screen. Tilts her head slightly. Then she looks at us.
“Well,” she says, smiling softly. “It seems you might be further along than you thought.”
Stevie blinks. “What?”
“Based on what I’m seeing,” the doctor continues, turning the screen slightly, “You’re measuring a bit ahead.” she checks something, then looks back at Stevie “You are measuring about twelve weeks.”
Further than before, the thought echoes around my head, as my eyes meet Stevie’s.
Further.
Than.
Before.
Stevie makes a sound I’ve never heard, half laugh, half sob and clamps a hand over her mouth. My own vision blurs. I don’t speak as I’m not sure I could trust my voice right now.
The doctor keeps talking. Heart activity. Measurements. Dates. Follow-up scans. But all I can hear is that phrase ringing through my skull. Further than before. Not safe or guaranteed. But further and that’s something.
When we step outside, the sun feels too bright. The world is moving like nothing monumental just happened. We sit on the curb for a minute. Stevie leans into me, her head on my shoulder. My arm wraps around her automatically, like I’m anchoring us both to this moment.
“I don’t want to celebrate yet,” she whispers.
“I know,” I say.
“I don’t want to jinx it.”
“We won’t,” I repeat. “We’ll just… hold it.”
She nods, breathing shaky. “This feels different.”
I close my eyes. “Yeah,” I say quietly. “It does.”
I want to shout it from the rooftops, to call Joker, Tank.
Call everyone and tell them to brace for the biggest damn party Pine Ridge has ever seen.
I don’t. Because this time, hope doesn’t feel like something to chase.
It feels like something fragile in my hands.
And I know what happens when you squeeze too tight.
Back home, the house feels different. Stevie kicks off her boots and walks to the kitchen like she’s grounding herself in the ordinary. I watch her move. We don’t talk about nursery paint or names or timelines.
We talk about dinner, order takeout, and sit on the couch with our knees touching, her palm resting lightly over her stomach.
“I’m scared,” she admits.
“So am I.”
She tilts her head slightly, studying me. “You’re not trying to fix it.”
I smile softly. “Learned my lesson.”
She exhales, some tension leaving her shoulders. “If this doesn’t work—”
“We’ll survive,” I say gently. “Together.”
“And if it does?”
I think about the clubhouse. About RJ tearing through the halls, Beau pretending he’s too old to care but still showing up to everything, Polly’s laugh echoing in the bar, the future I stopped building because it hurt too much to imagine.
Then I look at Stevie. Here with me, brave as hell.
“Then we’ll meet that too,” I say. “Slow. Honest. Together.”
She nods, tears slipping free. “Okay.”
Later, when she’s asleep, I sit at the kitchen table alone.
The house is dark except for the small light over the stove.
I let myself feel it. Not the fear. The gratitude.
For how far we’ve come back to each other, the way she asked for space instead of walking away and how I learned to sit in pain without trying to wrestle it into submission.
For the fact that today, in that room, she didn’t look alone. She looked strong. Further than before. I press my palms flat against the table and breathe. I don’t know what happens next. There could still be blood, loss and heartbreak waiting around a corner we can’t see.
But we are different now. Stronger in the quiet places. Whatever happens, we won’t implode or disappear into obsession or silence. We’ll speak instead and now we know how to grieve.
I glance down the hallway toward our bedroom. Toward her. Hope came back quietly.