Chapter 26
Twenty-Six
EASTON
It’s moments like this where I wish I could slow down time and breathe.
Too much is happening too fast; the trial just ended, Quinn’s birth was only three days ago, and now the perfect, healthiest baby I ever envisioned is trapped in the NICU.
Not to mention Harley’s recovery is a lot more extensive than I ever thought. I feel like I’m running on fumes.
Harley is beyond exhausted, her body stitched and sore, her spirit cracked in ways I don’t know how to mend. I’m no better, but at least I can move, can carry bags and sign papers and pretend I have a grip on it all.
Her doctor pulled me aside before discharge, speaking in that calm clinical tone like this conversation was just another box for him to check off his list. Baby blues. Common. Temporary. Happens to about eighty percent of new mothers.
But knowing it’s normal doesn’t make it easier to watch Harley fade. It doesn’t help me figure out how to hold her together when she can’t look at Quinn without trembling, or when she pushes food around on her plate without taking a bite.
I don’t know how to help her. I don’t know how to help Quinn.
All I know is that both of them need me to be steady, even if I’m also breaking inside.
Harley sits on the edge of the hospital bed, her face pale, one hand braced on the mattress while the other hovers protectively near her incision.
Every movement is slow, careful, like her body is made of glass.
I crouch in front of her, slipping her shoes onto her feet even though she argues she can do it herself.
“Don’t push it, Little Bird,” I murmur. “I’ve got you.”
Her mouth presses into a thin line, pride warring with exhaustion. She nods once, then lets me slip her arm over my shoulder. I steady her carefully as she rises, her breath catching at the effort. She leans into me, light and trembling, and I hate how fragile she feels in my arms.
The nurse bustles in with a folder of instructions, her voice chipper while she rattles off details about medication schedules, incision care, and diet recommendations.
I try to listen, I really do, but it’s all too much.
She smiles warmly at me like she knows I wasn’t really listening, and hands me papers with detailed notes and post op care.
Harley doesn’t say word. She’s staring absently at the empty room, and I know she’s thinking about Quinn. There’s no way any of this is normal because we’re leaving the hospital without our little girl.
When the paperwork is signed and the nurse finally leaves us alone, Harley sags against me. I push the wheelchair closer to the bed and help her sit. She keeps her head down, dark hair curtaining her face and arms folded protectively around her middle.
The walk out of the hospital feels wrong. Harley’s supposed to be cradling a pink swaddled baby, and instead, her arms are empty.
I help her into the car, adjusting the seatbelt so it won’t press against her incision. When I close the door and come around to the driver’s side, she’s staring straight ahead, her eyes shining but dry, like she’s run out of tears to cry.
“I feel like I’m abandoning her,” she whispers, voice so soft I almost miss it.
I grip the steering wheel hard enough for my knuckles to turn white. “We’re not abandoning her, the doctor insisted you needed some rest. Quinn is where she needs to be right now. Getting stronger. And we’ll be here every damn day until she’s ready to come home.”
Harley nods, but doesn’t say anything else. She just stares out the window as silent tears slide down her cheeks.
Driving away from the hospital without Quinn feels like all kinds of wrong, but I have to get Harley home, get her rested and recovered, so she’ll be strong enough to take care of our little girl.
Reaching across the console, I find her hand and thread my fingers through hers. Her grip is weak, but it’s there. I hold on, because it’s all I can do.
Kennedy’s waiting for us at the apartment, practically vibrating in place as she holds the door open. The second we cross the threshold she swoops in, arms flapping like she can catch Harley if I so much as loosen my grip on her.
“Careful, careful, oh my God, you’re so pale. Easton, why are you letting her walk this much? She should be lying down!”
Harley gives her a flat look, but it lacks heat. “Kennedy, please.”
I guide Harley past her and toward the couch, but Kennedy is already fussing with blankets, plumping pillows, and muttering under her breath about how we didn’t have enough ginger ale or crackers in the pantry.
“I’ve got it,” I say, sharper than I mean to. Kennedy freezes, blinking at me. Then she steps back with her hands raised.
“Okay, okay. Just trying to help.”
I sigh, softening. “I know. We’re just … tired.”
Kennedy’s expression cracks then, her eyes glossing over. She crouches in front of Harley and squeezes her hand gently. “I know you probably don’t want to hear this right now, but you’re stronger than you think. And Quinn, she’s going to be fine. She’s your little fighter.”
Harley’s throat works, but she doesn’t answer. She leans back into the pillows, her eyes drifting shut, and I tuck a blanket over her before she can argue.
Kennedy watches me for a long moment before whispering, “She’s really bad, isn’t she?”
I swallow hard. “Yeah.”
Her eyes burn, but she nods. “Then we’ll keep showing up until she’s not.”
Kennedy warms up soup that my mom dropped off earlier and puts some show on that the two of them like to watch in an attempt to keep Harley’s mind occupied … but her gaze is unfocused, and she barely touches her food.
“Have you heard from the hospital?” Harley asks once Kennedy disappears into the kitchen, clattering dishes loud enough to give us a sliver of privacy.
“One of the nurses called,” I say. “Said Quinn’s doing really well.”
Harley nods slowly, like she’s afraid to let hope settle in too deep. Her eyelids droop, heavy with exhaustion. “Can you take me to bed?”
I slip an arm around her waist and help her up, feeling every tremor in her body as we shuffle down the hall. Each step is careful, her weight pressing into me easily. I hate how fragile she feels.
In the bedroom, she whispers something about needing the shower, and I hesitate before nodding. “I’ll be right here if you need me.”
“I need you,” she whispers, her voice fragile yet steady enough to undo me. She reaches for my hand and tugs me with what little strength she has left into the bathroom.
The steam rises fast, fogging the mirror and curling around us like a shroud. She clutches the edge of the counter, breathing shallow, like every movement is excruciating. Pain drags across her face, and I want nothing more than to scoop her up and take it all from her.
“Easy,” I murmur, slipping an arm around her as she steps out of her clothes. Her incision is an angry line across skin I’ve always worshiped, and seeing it makes my chest burn.
When the water hits her shoulders, her body sags. She presses her forehead into my chest.
“It hurts,” she whispers, the words wavering.
“I know, baby,” I say, tightening my hold. “Lean on me. I wish I could take it away.”
She lets herself go slack against me, tears mingling with the water running down her cheeks. I brace us both against the tile, holding her upright and kissing the top of her wet hair while she sobs.
“You don’t have to be strong for me,” I whisper. “Not now. Not ever. Just let me carry you.”
She clutches me with trembling hands, and I stay rooted, letting the water wash over both of us until her sobs soften into small, broken breaths.
When she finally nods that she’s ready, I help her out, drying her gently, careful not to pull at the bandage. She shivers when the cool air hits, so I wrap her in a towel.
“Almost done. Let’s get you clean and warm,” I murmur.
I redress her wound the way the nurse showed me, hands steadier this time, although my heart twists at every flinch. When it’s finished, I help her into a loose shirt and guide her into bed, tucking the blanket snug around her.
Her eyes are heavy, but she reaches for my hand. “Don’t leave.”
“Never,” I promise, pressing a kiss to her knuckles before settling in beside her.
And for the first time since Quinn was born, Harley sleeps without crying.
The next morning comes too fast. Harley stirs when I help her out of bed, wincing when she straightens. She’s quiet as I ease her into some clothes and button her coat, her silence heavy with everything she refuses to say out loud.
We don’t talk much on the drive to the hospital. Harley stares out the window, eyes fixed somewhere far away, while I grip the wheel and try to keep my mind from spinning. The only sound is the hum of the engine and the occasional sharp breath she takes when a bump in the road jars her incision.
When we walk into the NICU, the familiar beeping and soft shuffling of nurses wrap around us. Harley’s fingers tighten around mine as we approach Quinn’s isolette.
She’s still so damn small, but when I look at the monitors, I notice the numbers are steadier than yesterday. Her tiny chest rises and falls, fragile but strong, and something in me cracks wide open.
“Morning, baby girl,” I whisper, crouching down so my face is level with the glass. My hand presses against it, as if I can reach through and touch her. Beside me, Harley’s tears spill silently down her cheeks. She leans forward and presses her forehead to the glass.
“She looks stronger,” she says, her voice trembling with what I can only guess is hope and fear tangled together.
“She is,” I say firmly, because I need her to believe it. Because I need to believe it.
The nurse comes over, smiling warmly. “Quinn had a good night. Stable vitals, good feeding through the tube. We can try more skin-to-skin later today if Mom or Dad are up for it.”