Chapter 18 Noelle
EIGHTEEN
NOELLE
Steam rises off the Texas highway.
Feet propped up on the dashboard. George Strait sings on the radio. The station I finally found. Inwardly, my body temperature rises just thinking about his low, sexy voice and his wicked fingers and tongue.
“Feet off the dash,” he says automatically while staring at my legs.
“I’m soothing my nausea,” I counter.
He flicks me a look. “That isn’t a thing.”
“It could be,” I smirk, flirting.
We ride a few miles in comfortable nothing. The farther we get from New Orleans, the more my stomach unwinds. The more the memory of last night presses close again, warm and panty-melting.
I want his hand. I want it so badly my fingers twitch. There are no cameras now. No ex-boyfriends. No performance. If I reach for him, it’s because I want to, not because I need to sell the story. Which is exactly why my hand stays in my lap.
“Thinking too much,” he says, not taking his eyes off the road.
“Am not.”
“You always are.” He knocks his knuckles lightly against mine on the console. It counts. It’s ridiculous that it counts, but it does. My chest loosens. “I’m worried about you.”
Yeah, me too. What if I’m pregnant with Brooks’s baby?
But I keep those thoughts to myself. It’s a thought I’m not ready to entertain, so I close my eyes, faking sleep.
At the hospital, my big family is a small storm system in a waiting room—my dad pacing lines into the tile, Birdie with flowers in her hands, Greyson’s daughter, Paulina, passing out gummy bears.
When Matt and I walk in together, the air shifts in that way it always does when you rearrange the dynamics of a family. Matt is supposed to be here as a best friend, not as my boyfriend. I just hope they can’t see my evolving feelings for Matt. He’s not just a fake revenge date anymore.
J.D. comes to me first. He smells like aftershave and anxiety. “You made it.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” I tuck myself into his side. “You okay?”
“I am pretending to be the calm center of this family,” he says. “How am I doing?”
“You’re vibrating,” I say, and he laughs. “But you’re hiding it well.”
Over his shoulder, my dad is looking at Matt the way dads look at weather reports they don’t trust. Matt goes into full coach mode—shoulders down, voice low and calm, one hand respectfully nowhere. “Sir,” he says, nodding.
“Matt,” my dad returns, skeptical of our fake-dating lie. It’s not approval. It’s not a warning either. It’s a dad wanting to protect his daughter. What he doesn’t understand is that Matt treats me a thousand times better than Brooks ever did.
Or maybe that’s what he’s afraid of.
My brother, Parker, slides in for a hug that leaves me smelling like masculine cologne. “You look tired,” he says, which is college code for were you knocking boots?
“Brooks just gets under my skin, acting like he was good for me and that I should just forgive and forget.”
“Promise me you won’t get back with him. I’d rather you be with Matt than that cheating asshole,” Parker says, knowing how it feels to be cheated on.
“Don’t worry, that will never happen.”
“Good.”
Matt keeps his distance but brings me a water bottle and peanut M Greyson is a fountain. He pulls me into a hug anyway, and I feel the tremor in his arms.
“Follow me.”
We get a glimpse through glass—a tiny hat, even tinier fingers, Sutton’s exhausted smile, Paulina bouncing, our family doubled by joy.
Once Greyson, Sutton, Paulina, and their new baby girl are settled in their hospital room, we take turns going in. “Have you named her yet?” I ask.
Greyson says, “Not yet. We wanted to talk to everyone about it.” He grabs his phone, texts in the family group chat, and soon the whole O’Ryan clan is in the room, swooning over their baby girl.
Sutton’s holding the baby; Greyson and Paulina sit on each side of her. With tears in his eyes, he holds Sutton’s hand and she urges him on. “We want your permission to use Mom’s name.”
The room falls silent. Dad covers his mouth, and I don’t know whether anyone is happy or mad. “Unbelievable,” Witt says, shocked, and storms out of the room. For a moment, we all stare at each other. Dad says, “I’ll go after him.”
“No, let me,” I say, and before I know it, Parker is following me following Witt.
Parker puts his hand on my shoulder. When we see Witt sitting slumped in a waiting room chair, we sit on each side of him. He’s sensitive about Mom since she died giving birth to him. I place my hand on his knee. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
Witt pinches the bridge of his nose, his eyes glimmering with tears, and softly bangs his head against the wall. Parker says, “Bro, we know babies are hard on you, but you have to get over this.”
Witt lifts his head slowly and peers into Parker’s eyes, and it’s clear he has something to say, but instead he bites his bottom lip.
“Witt, what Parker means is that we all miss Mom, but we have to live with the hand life deals us.”
He scoffs. “Miss Mom… I don’t miss her. I didn’t even know her. How can I miss someone I didn’t know?”
But he does miss her. Her blood pumped through him. Her food fed and hydrated him.
Tonight isn’t the night to take a deep dive into his feelings about our mom and what happened.
He carries enough guilt to build a football stadium—or at least we think he does.
Witt says a few sentences a day to any of us, and that’s it.
“Why did you storm out? You don’t want them to name their beautiful baby after Mom? Because I think it’s wonderful.”
“She was your mom. You all decide whether you want her name to be used.”
“Our mom.”
“Whatever. Just go in there and say I was just being a dick.”
“Well, that’s not far from the truth,” I tease.
Parker, ever the gentle giant, chimes in. “Mom would want you to be happy. I want you to be happy. I would love to have a relationship with you like J.D. and Greyson have.” Parker folds his long fingers over Witt’s shoulder, squeezing and shooting Witt a hopeful smile.
Witt doesn’t respond but shakes his head. Mom’s passing affected us all differently. I was six, Parker was five, Greyson sixteen, and John David almost eighteen, so Witt feels left out anytime the subject of Mom comes up.
“Be honest with Greyson and Sutton. They’ll understand your point of view.”
“I was being stupid.”
“Okay, come on. Let’s go back in and hold the baby.”
When we come back, Dad grabs Witt, gives him a giant bear hug, and under his breath says, “I love you, son. I remember the day you were born. I laid you on her chest and she cried. She kept mumbling about how handsome and strong you were.”
Witt leans into him but, again, stays silent.
Sutton asks Witt, “We decided we want to name her after you. Witley Suzanne.”
“Oh my God, I love it!” I clap and bounce on my toes.
His eyes go wide. “Witley. After me?”
Greyson says, “When Mom was pregnant with you, she always said you were going to be an MMA fighter since you were always kicking. We want our baby girl to be a fighter like you.”
Witt acts unconcerned and finally says, “It’s your baby.”
Greyson says to Witt, “We want you to be the first to hold her. Say hello to Witley Suzanne O’Ryan. Now sit so you don’t drop her.” The last part is more of a command.
I’m not sure if Witt is acting repulsed or if he really is, but in our family, it’s an enormous honor to be the first one to hold a newborn. Greyson chose Witt, not Dad or J.D. or even me. He wants Witt to feel special, the way Mom made the rest of us feel.
Suddenly, I’m crying like a baby. “She’s so beautiful.” I stroke her soft little head while my little brother holds her, wondering if I’m carrying a baby.