Chapter 19
Nineteen
HARLEY
Four Weeks Later
Time feels like it’s moving everywhere and nowhere all at once.
The baby is growing. My hunger is finally catching up to me, the scale inching higher every week, and my OB seems pleased with the progress.
Though, that doesn’t mean I love every part of it.
I did love that the morning sickness was over and that I was learning quite quickly how to adjust to this new exhaustion plaguing me.
It means I’m doing what I can to keep this baby healthy.
Letters between Easton and I have become weekly now, instead of monthly like before. We write about everything and nothing—baby names, old memories, even silly what-ifs—because we’ve both learned the hard way that there is no use drowning in things we can’t change.
Just last week he brought up the time we got matching tattoos.
I’d been terrified of the needle, with incredibly sweaty palms, while he’d been nothing but excited, grinning like a kid at Christmas.
I didn’t think much about it back then, but funnily enough, the ink means more to me now than any wedding band.
It’s a promise we carry on our skin, a mark that can’t be stripped away by courts or chains.
A reminder that no matter how hard the world tries to separate us, we’ve chosen each other. Permanently.
I still carry hurt, of course. Some days it presses harder than others.
But therapy is teaching me to hold it differently, to see it for what it really is.
It’s not Easton I’m angry at anymore. It’s the system; the endless waiting, the way it steals moments that should belong to us.
Together. Alone. Every day I practice forgiving him, reminding myself that loving someone means separating the man from the mess he’s been thrown into.
Rick called yesterday to let me know about another pre-trial hearing.
He sounded more optimistic than I felt, talking about motions and new witness statements …
like that might finally tip the scales. I told him I’d be there, of course I wouldn’t miss it, and then called my boss to ask for the morning off again.
By now it’s becoming routine, juggling work around court dates. I hope and pray it will be over soon.
The next morning, I arrive at the courthouse with Kennedy at my side, both of us wrapped in the kind of silence that means we’re bracing for whatever is coming. I expect to sit with her, the two of us against the world like always. But when I walk into the gallery, I freeze.
Easton’s parents are here.
Layla stands when she sees me, smoothing her blouse nervously, and Andy gives me a small, steady smile that almost undoes me right then and there. I didn’t realize how much I needed to see them until that moment. Without hesitation, his mom reaches for my hand.
“Sit with us, Harley,” she whispers, her eyes glassy. “You don’t have to go through this alone.”
Kennedy slips into the row behind without protest, and I find myself settling between them, Layla on my left and Andy on my right. For the first time in a long time, I feel less like I’m a girl showing up to defend the man she loves, and more like part of a family showing up together.
The air is still heavy, but with their shoulders pressing against mine, the weight is a little easier to bear.
The courthouse bench feels harder every time I sit on it.
Maybe it’s my body changing, the extra weight pressing on my spine, or maybe it’s just that each hearing drains me in new ways.
Leaving me feeling like nothing but skin and bones.
I press a hand against the swell of my stomach, small but growing, and completely undeniable now to everyone in the room.
I try to focus on breathing; nerves and stress aren’t good for the baby.
The bailiff calls everyone to rise, and Easton shuffles in, chains rattling.
Tears prick at my eyes/ He looks tired, shadows deep under his eyes, hair too long, and shoulders rigid.
But the second he finds me in the gallery, his face softens.
Just for a heartbeat, all the steel falls away, and my chest aches with how much I miss him.
He insisted I didn’t come and visit him.
Not while you’re carrying, he’d written.
He didn’t want me in that place, didn’t want me walking through metal detectors and heavy doors with our baby inside me.
Staying away is becoming harder every day, but I respect his wishes.
Loving him means listening, even when it tears at me.
So I wait for these stolen moments instead. Wait to catch his eyes across a courtroom, and hold on to the flicker of love that passes between us, before duty pulls him back into chains.
The judge settles, gavel cracking once. “State versus Easton Ryder Diggs. Pre-trial conference.”
The prosecutor stands, spine straight and voice clipped. “Your Honor, the State reaffirms our position. The defendant assaulted the victim, causing significant injury. He has a prior record. We move forward to trial with confidence.”
Her words land like stones in my stomach. I wish her words didn’t affect me so much.
Rick rises, calm as ever while buttoning his jacket.
“Your Honor, the defense disagrees. We’ve obtained witness information corroborating Ms. Starr, testimony that the complainant shoved Mr. Diggs first and was observed tampering with a drink.
These statements call the prosecution’s narrative into question.
Given this, we renew our request for bail reconsideration. ”
I lean forward, clutching Layla’s hand. My pulse pounds.
The prosecutor shoots to her feet. “These alleged witnesses are unverified. Hearsay from bars and casual acquaintances. This is smoke and mirrors, Your Honor. The fact remains: the victim sustained a concussion from the defendant’s fist. He is dangerous.”
Rick doesn’t flinch. “The State is quick to discredit testimony that doesn’t align with its narrative. These aren’t ‘casual acquaintances,’ they’re willing witnesses. And they add weight to what Ms. Starr has already testified under oath.”
The judge steeples his fingers, eyes moving between them.
Silence stretches until it’s unbearable.
Finally, he says, “Bail remains denied. However, the Court acknowledges the defense has raised substantive issues that will need to be resolved at trial. Discovery deadlines are confirmed. Plea negotiations should remain open.”
The gavel cracks.
My chest caves in. Another no .
What is the point of this?
Behind me, Kennedy mutters something vicious under her breath, while Easton’s mom sighs beside me, long and low, like she’s exhausted.
But I can’t look at her. I look at Easton instead.
His jaw is tight, his eyes steady on me, like he’s trying to hold me together even as deputies pull him back toward the door.
The sound of a heart beating fills the room.
Strong, steady, rhythmic. I stare at the monitor, tears blurring my eyes as the technician moves the wand over my belly.
The screen flickers with only gray and white.
And then … a tiny profile. A little leg with five little toes kicks, proof of life I can barely believe is mine. Even though I’m staring right at it.
“That’s your baby,” the technician says gently. “Everything looks good. Measuring right on track.”
My hand fly’s to my mouth. My parents sit behind me, silent. My dad leans forward, eyes wide, while my mom grips her purse like she is afraid to let go.
“Everything is there?” My voice cracks.
The technician smiles. “Yes, from what I can see the child is perfectly healthy.”
Tears spill down my cheeks. She holds the printout toward me, and I reach for it, clutching it like a lifeline. The heartbeat still echoes in my ears, even when the gel is wiped away, even when the appointment ends and the doctor talks about vitamins and exercise.
Walking out of the office, my mom touches my arm. “It’s … different when you see it, isn’t it?”
I swallow hard. “Yeah.”
She nods, her eyes glossy, and for the first time in a long time, she doesn’t look like a wedding planner calculating costs. She looks like my mother.
My parents drop me off at home, and they don’t have time to stay for coffee because mom has a wedding to plan or something.
That night, after Kennedy goes to bed, I sit at the kitchen table with the ultrasound photo spread out in front of me and Easton’s latest letter unfolded beside it. I stare at both until the tears blur everything again, then reach for a pen.
August 1st
Easton ,
I heard our baby’s heartbeat again today.
Strong and steady, like it’s keeping time for us.
The doctor said everything looks good. I saw our baby kick on the screen, a little flash of movement that made me cry right there on the table.
I wish so badly you could’ve been there. I wish you could’ve heard it with me.
My parents came. Mom cried, which shocked me. Dad too, though he tried to hide it. For once, it felt like they were seeing what I see and not a mistake, not a scandal, but a life. Our little life.
Court earlier was brutal again. Rick fought hard, he did admit the case is messy though, and that means something, right?
That means there’s a crack in their story, a chance for us to break through.
Rick says plea deals will be floated soon.
I don’t know what that means for you, but I hate the sound of it.
You don’t deserve to be painted guilty just because it’s convenient.
Kennedy wants to start working on the nursery. She says you would want me to get it ready, so I’ll keep building this life until you can come home to it. I promise when you walk through our door, there’ll be a place for you, for us, for our baby.
With love always,
Harley
I fold the letter, slide it into the envelope, and tuck the ultrasound printout inside with it. My hands shake as I seal it, but when I press it closed, I feel steadier than I have all day.
Maybe he can’t be in the room with me. But he’ll be home soon. He’ll get to hold our baby and help me through the sleepless nights.
For now, that will have to be enough.