Chapter 13
Thirteen
HARLEY
Litte Bird,
Harley,
My love,
My world,
I don’t know what to say or do to convey the regret I hold for my actions that night.
I have rehashed those fleeting minutes over and over.
The sound of music in the air, the shove against my chest, the swing that came before mine.
I wish I hadn’t punched him. I wish I had kept my head, taken Kennedy’s drink, and just walked away.
I wish I had done a thousand things differently.
But here I am, sitting in chains with nothing but time to replay it all.
I was surprised when Kennedy took the stand.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so fierce before, and for me of all people.
Her testimony lit something in me, a small spark of hope.
But then the judge snuffed it out with the same cold words: bail denied.
I don’t know if he’s blind, if he just doesn’t care, or if my name is already too stained to ever sound innocent in a courtroom again.
Rick says not to give up, and if Rick isn’t hopeless, then neither am I.
How are you feeling? I think you should be about three months now, if I’ve counted right.
That means it’s safer. Safe enough to start telling people, even if you don’t feel ready.
You can tell my parents. I know things between us are complicated, but they need some good news.
In all this darkness, you and the baby are the only light I can see.
I want to be with you. I want to feel your belly grow under my hands, to talk to our baby at night when the world is quiet.
I want to kiss you, Little Bird, until neither of us remembers these walls.
I fall asleep thinking about your face, your voice, the way you used to laugh when I teased you.
I tell myself I’ll have all that again, even when doubt creeps in.
I’ve been thinking about names, too. I can’t stop.
It’s the only thing that makes me feel like I’m still part of this with you.
I keep coming back to girl names, maybe because I have this feeling it’s a girl.
Maybe it’s just wishful thinking, picturing a little version of you running around.
A little girl with your eyes, your stubbornness.
Here’s what I’ve been turning over in my head.
Quinn — short, strong, but still soft. I picture her climbing trees and scuffing her knees and never backing down from anyone.
Lila — I’ve always liked that name. It feels gentle, like the sound of a lullaby.
Rowan — it means little redhead, I think, and I wonder if she’d have that in her hair like you do when the sun catches it.
Grace — because even if I don’t deserve it, she’d carry it in her name.
Aria — like music, like the song we never got to dance to at the festival before everything fell apart.
I want you to add to this list more. Tell me what other names come to your heart. Even if it feels too soon, let’s dream together. It’s the only way I can survive in here knowing we’re building something real, even if it starts on paper.
I also want to ask you, if you’re ready, to call my parents.
Tell them about the baby. Tell them I love them, even if I don’t know how to say it the right way.
They should know they’re going to be grandparents.
They should know that something good is coming, even if their son is stuck in a cage for now.
You should also tell your parents, I know they will be excited and have a lot to say about our current situation. Maybe you and your mom can bond over this though.
Every night, I lie on this hard mattress, stare at the ceiling, and picture the three of us together.
You, me, and the baby. I imagine you falling asleep in my arms, our child between us, safe.
That picture is the only thing that gets me through the sound of the bars closing, the footsteps in the hall, the reminder that I don’t belong anywhere but here.
But I do belong somewhere. With you. With us. With the life we’re building, even if I can’t touch it yet.
Hold on to me, Harley. Hold on for us. I swear to you, I’ll fight until I can walk out of here and put my hands on the life we’ve started.
Always yours,
Easton