Chapter 15 #2
He just holds me tighter.
"What do you need?" he asks, his voice low and steady.
"I don't know." I'm crying again, tears soaking into his shirt. "I don't know. I just—I can't—"
"What do you need right now, at this moment?"
I think about it.
Really think, the way Dr. Ganacha has been teaching me.
Not about what I want—because what I want is poison, death, and a one-way ticket back to that trap house where my mother died. But what I need.
"Just don't let go," I whisper. "Please. Just... don't let go."
"Never." He presses his lips to my forehead, and I feel the word vibrate through his chest. "I'm never letting go, Van. Not ever. You hear me?"
I nod against his shoulder.
The craving doesn't go away.
It sits in my chest like a living thing, a monster with teeth and claws, demanding to be fed.
But Garrett's arms are around me, and his heartbeat is steady against my ear, and slowly—so slowly—the monster starts to quiet.
I don't know how long we stay like that.
Long enough for my tears to dry.
Long enough for my breathing to steady.
Long enough for the gray light of dawn to start creeping through the blinds again.
"Thank you," I finally say.
"For what?"
"For not judging me."
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his dark eyes soft in the early morning light.
"I will never judge you for fighting this battle," he says. "Every day you don't use is a victory. Every time you feel that craving and don't give in is a win. You're the strongest person I know, Vanna. And I'm gonna be right here, holding you up, for as long as you need me."
I kiss him.
It's soft and careful, mindful of my split lip, but it's the first real kiss we've shared since before the cabin.
Since before everything fell apart.
"I love you," I murmur against his mouth.
"I love you too." He brushes a strand of hair back from my face. "Both of you."
His hand settles on my belly, warm and protective, and I feel the baby shift beneath his palm.
Like the baby knows daddy's there.
The ultrasound is scheduled for that afternoon.
The doctor comes in with the portable machine, all professional smiles and reassuring competence.
She's been monitoring the baby since I was admitted, checking his heartbeat every few hours, making sure the trauma didn't cause any complications.
"Everything looks good so far," she says as she squirts the cold gel onto my belly. "But let's get a good look at this little one, shall we?"
Garrett moves to stand beside me, his hand finding mine automatically.
His face is carefully blank, but I can feel the tension in his grip.
The fear he won't let himself show.
We could have lost this baby.
We could have lost everything.
The wand moves across my stomach, and the screen flickers to life.
Gray and white shadows, blurry shapes that slowly resolve into something recognizable.
A head. A spine. Little arms and legs, curled up tight.
"There we go," The doctor says, pointing at the screen. "Looking healthy. Good size for twenty-three weeks. Strong heartbeat."
She clicks a button, and suddenly the room fills with sound.
Whoosh-whoosh-whoosh-whoosh.
Fast and steady and perfect.
The most beautiful sound in the world.
Garrett makes a choked noise beside me. When I look up, there are tears streaming down his face.
"That's him," he breathes. "That's our boy."
"You’re right." The doctor smiles. "It's definitely a boy. Would you like to see?"
She adjusts the wand, and there it is. Unmistakable.
"A boy," I whisper. "We're having a boy."
I knew already, somehow.
But seeing it confirmed—seeing him on that screen, alive and healthy and perfect—something breaks open inside me.
"Waylon," I say out loud. "His name is Waylon."
Garrett looks at me, eyebrows raised. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." I smile through my tears. "Waylon Mercer."
Garrett is quiet for a long moment.
Then he leans down and presses his forehead against my belly, right where the doctor’s wand was a moment ago.
"Hey, Waylon," he murmurs. "It's your dad. I'm sorry it took me so long to officially meet you. But I'm here now. And I'm gonna spend the rest of my life making sure nothing bad ever happens to you or your mama again."
I run my fingers through his hair, tears sliding down my cheeks.
This is what I was fighting for.
In that cabin, when everything hurt and I wanted to give up, this is what kept me going.
The promise of this moment.
The promise of our family.
"Waylon Mercer," Garrett says again, sitting up. He's smiling now, really smiling, the first genuine smile I've seen on his face since before this nightmare started. "I like it."
"It's perfect," I agree.
The doctor prints out several pictures from the ultrasound, and Garrett immediately tucks one into his wallet, handling it like it's made of gold.
The others go on my bedside table, propped up against the water pitcher where I can see them every time I open my eyes.
My son. Our son.
We made it.
Later that evening, after dinner and another round of vitals and another session with Dr. Ganacha, there's a soft knock at the door.
It's Leah.
She's out of her scrubs for once, wearing jeans and a soft blue sweater, her hair down around her shoulders.
She looks younger like this.
More like the girl I used to know, before addiction and betrayal and years of hurt built walls between us.
"Hey." She hovers in the doorway, uncertain. "Is this a bad time?"
"No." I glance at Garrett, who gives me a small nod and rises from his chair.
"I'm gonna go find some real food," he says. "You two talk."
He kisses my forehead on his way out, leaving me alone with the woman I used to call my sister.
Leah takes the chair Garrett vacated, perching on the edge like she's ready to bolt at any moment.
Her hands twist in her lap, nervous.
"I wanted to see how you were doing," she starts. "With my own eyes, not just your chart."
"I'm okay." The words come easier now, after days of practice. "Sore. Tired. But okay."
"And the baby?"
"Waylon." I can't help the smile that curves my lips. "We found out for sure today. It's a boy. Waylon Mercer."
Leah's expression softens. "That's beautiful, Vanna."
We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on us.
Years of hurt.
Years of broken promises and stolen trust.
The necklace.
God, the necklace.
"Leah." I take a deep breath. "There's something I need to give you."
I reach for the bedside drawer, where Garrett put the jewelry box yesterday.
My hands are shaking as I pull it out, as I hold it up so she can see.
Leah's face goes white.
"Is that—"
"Your mother's necklace." My voice cracks.
Leah doesn't move. Doesn't breathe.
"I know sorry isn't enough." I'm crying now, tears dripping onto the worn velvet of the box. "I know there's nothing I can say that will make up for what I did. But Garrett found it. When he—when they came for me. It was in Virgil's things. And I wanted you to have it back."
I hold the box out toward her.
She stares at it like it might bite her.
"I don't deserve your forgiveness," I continue, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I know that. I'm not asking for it. But this belongs to you. It always belonged to you. And I'm so, so sorry I took it."
For a long, terrible moment, nothing happens.
Then Leah reaches out with trembling hands and takes the box.
She opens it slowly, carefully, like she's afraid of what she'll find inside.
But it’s is there—I checked, when Garrett first showed me.
The delicate gold necklace that their father gave their mother on their wedding day.
A sob tears out of Leah's throat.
"I thought it was gone forever." Her voice is barely a whisper. "I thought I'd never—this is all I had left of her, Vanna. The only thing that survived the fire. And when it was gone, I felt like I lost her all over again."
"I know." I'm sobbing too now, ugly and raw. "I know, and I'm so sorry. I was so lost, Leah. So broken. I hurt everyone who loved me, and you most of all, and I can never—"
She moves before I can finish.
Suddenly she's on the bed beside me, her arms wrapped around me, the jewelry box pressed between us, and we're both crying.
Years of pain and anger and grief pouring out in the sterile quiet of the hospital room.
"I was so scared." Leah's voice is muffled against my shoulder.
"When Garrett called and said they'd taken you—when they brought you in and I saw what he did—I thought I was going to lose you too.
I thought I was going to lose another person I love, and I hadn't even told you that I still—that I never stopped—"
"I know." I hold her tighter. "I know. I love you too. I never stopped either."
We stay like that for a long time.
Crying. Holding each other. Letting go of all the hurt we've been carrying.
When we finally pull apart, Leah's face is blotchy and swollen, mascara smeared under her eyes.
She looks beautiful.
"I have something for you too," she says, wiping her face with the back of her hand. "Wait here."
She slips out of the room and returns a moment later with a small gift bag.
Inside is a onesie—tiny and soft and pale blue, with the words "Protected by the Saint's Outlaws MC" embroidered on the front.
"I saw a custom onesie shop online," Leah says, almost shy. "I know it's cheesy, but I thought... I thought Waylon might like it."
I laugh through my tears. "It's perfect. He's going to love it."
Leah smiles.
A real smile, the kind I haven't seen from her in years.
"We're going to be okay," she says. "Aren't we?"
"Yeah." I take her hand and squeeze. "I think we are."
Garrett comes back an hour later, carrying a bag of takeout that smells like heaven.
He stops short when he sees Leah still sitting on the bed, the jewelry box open between us.
"Everything okay?" he asks carefully.
I look at Leah. She looks at me.
"Yeah," we say together.
And for the first time in years, I really believe it.
That night, after Leah leaves and the takeout containers are cleared away and the nurses have done their final rounds, Garrett climbs into the narrow hospital bed beside me.
It's against about six different rules, but no one tries to stop him.
He wraps his arms around me carefully, mindful of my injuries, and I press my back against his chest.
His hand settles on my belly, and I feel Waylon kick against his palm.
"Hey, buddy," Garrett murmurs. "Your mama needs to sleep. You settle down in there."
Another kick. Defiant. Already stubborn, just like his father.
I smile into the darkness.
"Thank you," I whisper.
"For what?"
"For not giving up on me. All those years, all those times I pushed you away—you never gave up."
"Never will." He presses a kiss to the back of my neck. "You and Waylon are my whole world, Van. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you."
I believe him.
After everything—the addiction, the separation, the horror of the cabin—I finally, truly believe him.
"We're going to be okay," I say. The same words I said to Leah, but they feel different now. Truer. Like a promise instead of a hope.
"Yeah." Garrett's arms tighten around me. "We are."
I close my eyes and let myself drift.
For the first time since the cabin, I don't dream of Virgil.
I dream of a little boy with Garrett's dark eyes and my smile, running through the clubhouse while his aunts and uncles chase him, laughing.
I dream of home.