Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
HARLEY
Four Weeks Later
Entering the third trimester is supposed to be an exciting time.
It means the baby will be here soon, that I’ll finally hold them in my arms instead of just feeling the kicks and rolls inside me. But, instead of nursery colors and baby showers, it’s a reminder of something else, something that makes dread curl in my stomach.
The trial for Easton’s case is starting today.
Kennedy and I have spent the last four weeks buying baby furniture, painting walls, assembling changing stations, and decorating the nursery. Easton’s parents bought most of the furniture, his dad tackled the crib and dresser while us ladies fussed over curtains and tiny baskets for diapers.
It was really hard to do without Easton.
Every time I taped off the wall for another coat of paint or folded a onesie into the dresser drawer, I thought about how he should be here.
He should be the one rolling the crib into place, tightening bolts with a focused look on his face, and laughing when Kennedy argued with me about whether yellow or sage green was the better accent color.
Instead, it’s me and my belly, stretching bigger every day, trying not to cry when I picture him missing these moments.
I’d sit on the rocking chair sometimes, after everyone left, rocking slow in the quiet, as the faint scent of fresh paint and baby powder filled the room. My hand would rest on my stomach as the baby kicked, and I’d whisper promises I’m still not sure I can keep.
Daddy will be here. He’ll hold you. He’ll be home.
Easton’s mom caught me once, tears slipping down my face while I folded a blanket. She didn’t say anything, just hugged me tight, her hands rubbing circles across my back. It was the closest thing to having him there, beside me, in the flesh, but it still wasn’t enough.
Kennedy had even thrown me a baby shower with my mom and Layla. It wasn’t anything crazy, just the four of us crowded around the living room with mock cocktails, finger sandwiches, and a playlist of old pop songs humming in the background. But it was everything I needed.
For a few hours that day, I was just a soon-to-be mom opening pastel gift bags and laughing so hard my cheeks hurt.
Between my mom and Layla, they bought everything I could possibly need.
Diapers stacked high in neat towers, bottles and burp cloths, a breast pump I blushed over when Kennedy waved it in the air like a prize.
Andy even came by afterward to fit the car seat into the back of my car, his hands steady where mine had shook.
I caught myself imagining Easton there, more than once.
Sitting beside me, teasing me about all the tiny outfits, sneaking sips of the mocktails and complaining there wasn’t any real alcohol in them.
I could almost hear his laugh in the spaces between those around me, almost feel his hand on my back when the baby shifted hard enough to steal my breath.
It made me ache, but it also reminded me I wasn’t alone. Not really. His family has stepped in for him. My mom has softened, supporting me in ways I never thought she would. Even Kennedy, who used to drive me crazy, has become my fiercest cheerleader.
Yet, still, under all the warmth and gifts and laughter, there was this hollow place inside me that only Easton could fill. Every time I look at the pile of baby things, I want him here to see it. To see how loved our child already is. To see how desperately I’m holding on for him.
My hand drifts to my stomach as I walk into the courthouse, the weight of my child pressing against me with every step.
The air inside is cool, almost too much so, but sweat gathers at the back of my neck.
Everyone’s eyes find me, or maybe it just feels that way.
I know what they see, a twenty-five-year-old girl with a swollen belly, standing up for a man most of them already believe is guilty.
Still, my breath catches when I see him.
He looks so handsome in the suit Rick insisted he wear, everything thoughtfully put together to present him in a certain way to the jury. The tie is straight, the collar is crisp, and even his hair is trimmed to hide the months of stress written in the set of his jaw.
They want the jury to see a man worth believing in, not just another file in a stack of cases. But I don’t need the suit to see that. I already know.
To me, he is more than polished fabric and arguments. He is the man who kisses me like I’m oxygen. The man who has been stripped of everything, yet still manages to love me with what little he has left.
The chains at his wrists ruin the illusion though.
Every time the metal glints under the lights, it makes my stomach twist. No matter how perfectly he looks on the outside, they still see him as dangerous.
They don’t see the way his eyes soften when they find mine, or the way his shoulders square, like just having me in the room gives him strength.
For just a moment, everything goes quiet. The lawyers, the judge, the shuffle of papers, it all fades until it’s just us, like it’s always been. Him and me, and the life we’ve made, kicking inside of me.
Then the prosecutor’s voice cuts through, sharp and unforgiving, dragging the room back into focus.
Words like record and repeat offense and risk to society ring out, each one slicing across the distance between us.
I hate how clinical they make him sound.
To them, he is a case number, a headline waiting to happen.
I want so desperately to shout at them as I continue my walk to the benches, to tell them they had it all wrong.
But instead, I fold my hands tightly over my stomach, my nails digging crescents into my skin.
Because breaking down won’t help him. Crying won’t sway a jury.
All I can do is sit here, steady as stone, and pray they’ll see what I see.
I slide into the front row of the gallery, my palms damp against the polished wood. My stomach feels stretched too tight, every muscle in my back aching from holding myself together.
Kennedy drops into the bench behind me, close enough that I can hear the snap of her gum and the rustle of her skirt as she crosses her legs. “Breathe, Harls,” she whispers, low enough so no one else can hear. “They’re not half as scary as they think they are.”
I almost smile. Almost.
Her voice is a lifeline, though, something normal in a room that feels anything but. I keep my eyes forward, on Easton, but I know if I falter, if my resolve cracks even for a second, Kennedy is right there to catch me.
When the prosecutor starts droning, sharp and smug, Kennedy leans forward.
“That haircut screams midlife crisis,” she murmurs. I don’t laugh, not out loud, but the corners of my lips betray me. The tiniest curve. The tiniest reminder that I’m not here alone.
Easton sees it. His eyes lock on mine, like my half-smile is the first breath of air he’s gotten all day. And suddenly, the chains on his wrists seem less like prison and more like paper.
The trial drags on. The prosecutor throws words like risk and record as if they are facts written in stone. Rick fires back, steady and measured, trying to chip away at the picture they painted of Easton. My hands tighten over my belly, grounding myself in the steady thump inside me.
Kennedy’s nails tap a slow rhythm against the pew, I know she’s anxious about getting called to the stand again, but also that she’s worried about me and the baby. I don’t even have to turn around to know she’s giving me that look. The one that says everything is going to be okay .
I want to believe her.
Because in this moment, it doesn’t matter how sharp the prosecutor’s words are or how loud the gavel sounds. What matters is Easton’s eyes on mine, steady and unyielding. What matters is the quiet strength pressed into my back by my best friend’s presence.
I’m not breaking. Not today. Pregnancy emotions be damned.
Two weeks.
Two weeks of sitting on the same hard, wooden bench while strangers stand at the front of the room and decide who Easton is. Two weeks of watching them pick apart his past like vultures circling bones, ignoring the man I know for the mistakes they think define him.
The prosecution is relentless. Medical records, hospital charts, photos of bruises blown up larger than life.
They parade character witnesses to the stand, people who barely knew Easton but still manage to twist a story that fits the prosecutor’s script.
Words like “violent tendencies” and “repeat offender” float across the courtroom, staining the air.
Every time they say it, I want to scream. Instead, I sit still, my hands pressing against the baby who has started to move more each day. A steady reminder that there is life still growing while everything else seems frozen in this endless cycle of accusation and defense.
My back aches constantly now. The benches feel harder with every session, and no matter how I shift, it is impossible to get comfortable.
The baby presses against my ribs, kicking as if in protest right along with me.
My ankles swell in my shoes, and even simple things like standing when the judge enters makes me feel unsteady.
And still, I show up. Every day.
Kennedy stays close, whispering sharp commentary under her breath every time a witness tries to smear Easton’s name. But this morning when I slide into the second row, I freeze.
My mom is here.
She sits prim and composed, hands folded in her lap. I can sense her unease as she looks around the room, her sharp blue eyes assessing. At first, I think maybe I’m imagining her, but when her eyes lift and meet mine, she smiles. A small, uncertain smile, but real nonetheless.
I hesitate before sitting down beside her. She reaches for my hand, hesitantly, like she isn’t sure she has the right.
“I wanted to be here,” she whispers. “For you and the baby.”
Something cracks in my chest, something fragile but deep. For years I’d convinced myself I’d never see her choose me over her work, over her appearances in society. And now, here she is, sitting through testimonies that made polite society shift in their seats.
I squeeze her hand back. My throat is too tight for words, but maybe she doesn’t need them.
Across the aisle, Easton looks over, his eyes narrowing in surprise when he sees my mother sitting next to me. His eyes find mine, and for a moment, even with the chains, even with the prosecutor’s voice still droning on, he looks lighter.
My mom leans close, her voice soft but edged with worry as she says, “I really don’t think you should be sitting here every day. It can’t be healthy for you or the baby, being surrounded by all this stress.”
I swallow hard, my eyes still locked on Easton. Maybe she’s right. Maybe this isn’t good for me. But I can’t leave, not when every look, every breath I take, feels like it’s holding him up.
“I can’t sit at home and wonder what’s going on,” I whisper back. “It would eat me alive.”
Her fingers tighten around mine. “You also can’t change whatever the jury decides, Harley.”
I shake my head, my eyes stay fixed on Easton where he sits, chained at the defense table. “No. But maybe if they keep seeing me every day, if they see the life we’ve built and the one growing inside me … maybe they’ll let him come home to me.”