Chapter Eight
Brooke
“Do you, Brooke Olivia Masters, take Matthew Reynolds Basen to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold…”
I look up into Matthew’s eyes, and for all his big declarations of love, he sure looks shit-scared right now. His jaw is tight, his shoulders a little too stiff. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was the one who’d suggested this.
“Yes,” I say, clear and steady.
It’s his turn.
The officiant, some court clerk with a monotone voice and a tie that’s too tight, rattles off the same question to Matthew. He answers, and I swear there’s a half-second delay before the word leaves his lips.
And just like that, we’re married.
“By the power vested in me by the State of New York, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
Matthew kisses me. Not a hesitant brush, not the careful, nervous peck I half-expected, but a real kiss. Full and certain and dizzying. It’s a one-eighty so sharp I swear it gives me whiplash.
One second he’s telling me he loves me.
The next, he’s saying we should co-parent as friends.
Then, when we realize my insurance barely covers anything, he’s the one suggesting we get married because I’m his partner and we’re in this together.
And now, here he is, looking like he’s about to pass out through most of the ceremony, only to beam like a kid on Christmas the moment we’re pronounced husband and wife.
I stand there, blinking up at him, caught somewhere between laughing and screaming.
Because I don’t know which version of Matthew is real.
The one who says he loves me?
The one who’s terrified of me?
The one who wants to co-parent?
Or the one who’s suddenly over-the-moon about being my husband?
All I know is that this is real now. This isn’t a test or a what-if. It’s a ring on my finger, a name on a marriage certificate, and a kiss that makes my knees go weak.
And God help me, I’m not sure if I’m ready for any of it.
We walk out of the courthouse hand in hand.
I’m in my second trimester now. Still not showing, but I’ve definitely gained weight and not just in my stomach. My jeans are tighter, my bra feels like a vice, and I swear even my face looks rounder. Like I ate all the Halloween candy… and then the Easter basket for good measure.
Whatever. At least I can still work.
Matthew and I were all set to, you know, not have a shotgun wedding until my last prenatal appointment, when we learned something that changed everything.
Even though Matthew and I get insurance from the same company, Marx United, his plan is the “executive” one. It covers everything, maternity, postpartum care, newborn visits, even things I didn’t know existed. Mine, on the other hand, barely covers a single night in the hospital when I deliver.
Because of course. Why would a woman need maternity benefits? No, let’s give the man the family plan.
I huff under my breath as Matthew steers me gently toward a bakery across the street.
“C’mon,” he says, like he’s dealing with a grumpy toddler.
We head inside, the warm smell of sugar and espresso wrapping around us. Without asking, he orders a KitKat waffle for me, my ultimate, all-consuming craving these days and a Nutella one for himself. Two coffees, too.
I find us a small table by the window, and he joins me a few minutes later, sliding into the seat across from mine. I dig into my desert like I haven't eaten all day.
“So,” he says finally, breaking the silence. “Do you like the reception?”
I swallow my bite and grin. “I love it.”
His smile widens, the tension in his shoulders easing a little.
“So now,” I tease, leaning back in my chair, “will you tell your mother?”
He swallows, even though he hasn’t taken a bite. “She’s still on that cruise.”
I laugh, picturing it. “I wonder if she knew that when she came back from her six-month cruise, she’d have a daughter-in-law and a grandchild on the way.”
“She’ll love you,” he says, reaching across the table and taking my hand. His thumb traces slow, gentle circles against my skin, and his eyes soften in a way that makes my chest ache.
I smile back, but there’s a nervous flutter beneath it. I can’t believe I’m even thinking this, but I want to ask. What are we? Are we just friends who happen to be having a baby? Are we lovers? Are we focusing only on the baby, or is there something more here?
Should I ask? How do I even ask? Are we together? Of course, we are, we’re Mr. and Mrs. Basen now. Do you love me? He’s already said he does.
Alright. I go with something safer.
“Do you… want more kids?” I blurt out suddenly.
He blinks, then laughs, caught off guard. “What?”
“I mean,” I say, heat creeping up my neck, “after this one.”
He’s still smiling when he answers. “Yeah… but let’s have this one first.”
“Right,” I laugh, twisting the napkin between my fingers. “Uh… my sister said she wanted to be here, but Zeke’s back and she didn’t want to leave the kids.”
“How’s that going?” Matthew asks carefully.
I shrug. “He might take her to court.”
Matthew gives me a look, and I know he’s about to say something I won’t like.
“I love your sister,” he starts, then trails off, probably too scared to piss me off.
“What?” I snap, already on edge.
He shrugs. “Zeke’s the kids’ father. He should be able to see them.”
My jaw clenches so hard it aches. “And when he falls off the wagon again, what happens then?”
“Look,” he says, keeping his voice calm, “I’m not taking sides. But it’s like you’ve already decided he’s going to fail.”
“He is!” I yell before I can stop myself.
The café goes silent. Around us, people try not to stare, but they are, glancing over their cups, peeking over menus, pretending they’re not watching the fat pregnant woman lose her shit in public.
I lean forward, my voice low but shaking. “So, if I got addicted to drugs? Or alcohol? Are you saying you’d still let me near our kid, just because I claimed I’d changed?”
Matthew doesn’t hesitate. “Yes. Because you’d be their mom.”
Something inside me snaps. I push back from the table so fast the chair screeches against the floor. “Then you’re an idiot,” I bite out, grabbing my bag and storming toward the door before he can say another word.
Matthew
Quietly, I follow behind Brooke, careful not to make any more of a scene than we already have. Heads turn as we pass, a few whispers trailing in our wake, but she doesn’t look back. Not once.
Outside, it’s started to rain again, a soft drizzle that soaks into our clothes as soon as we step out.
“Brooke, talk to me,” I say, my voice quieter this time.
“Let’s just go home, please.”
It’s not anger this time, it’s exhaustion. And it hits me then, a gut-punch reminder that she’s not just angry or upset. She’s tired. She’s growing an entire human being, working and worried about the future.
So, I bite my tongue and say nothing more. Instead, I fall into step beside her, matching her pace all the way to the subway. We ride in silence, the tension coiled tight between us, the rain still clinging to our hair and clothes when we finally reach my, our apartment.
The second the door shuts behind us, Brooke explodes.
“How could you even say that?” she yells, spinning to face me. “Do you realize my father killed my mother because he cared more about getting high than her life, our life?”
I try to stay calm, even though my chest feels like it’s caving in. “I get that,” I say carefully. “I do. But there’s a difference between protecting yourself and throwing fuel on the fire. Zeke went to rehab, Brooke. He’s been clean for almost a year.”
“So that just makes it okay?” she snaps.
“What more can he do?” I ask.
“He can not be an addict! God,” she shouts, her voice cracking under the weight of it, “do you realize what you’re asking? What you want to put those kids through? Our kid through?”
“Where is this coming from?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Me!” she screams, pressing a trembling hand to her chest. “I’m his daughter. His copy. One day I might be the addict. The murderer. And then it’ll be up to you to protect our child. And I need you to understand that. I need you to understand that you have to protect our child.”
A tear slides down her cheek, and as I watch her shoulders shake, the pieces click into place. This isn’t about Zeke. It isn’t about Stella. It’s about her, her fears, her ghosts, the weight she’s been carrying since the day her world fell apart.
I step closer, my voice steady even as my chest tightens. “I will protect our child. With my life, if I have to.”
She nods, her breath coming hard and uneven.
“And I’ll protect you too,” I add softly. “I will never give up on you. I will never walk away from you.”
“Why?” she whispers, frustrated, broken, like she doesn’t believe she deserves it.
I take a slow step forward, then another, until I’m standing right in front of her. She doesn’t look at me, her gaze is fixed somewhere on the floor, like she’s too scared to meet my eyes.
Gently, I lift my hand and place it at the curve of her neck, the warmth of her skin thrumming beneath my palm. My other hand finds her cheek, coaxing her chin upward until her tear-filled eyes finally meet mine.
“Because you’re mine,” I say softly, every word deliberate. “My partner. My wife.”
Her hands move to my waist, fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt, bunching it at the back as she stares into my eyes. I know what she’s searching for there, proof, certainty, something solid and I don’t hide. I let her see all of it: my love, my loyalty, my promise.
Slowly, she leans up and presses her lips to mine. The kiss is gentle, fleeting, breaking before it can go anywhere deeper. Then she stays close, her forehead resting against mine, her breath warm against my skin.
“I love you too,” she whispers.
I smile, letting my dimples peek out. “About damn time, woman.”
With that, I lean down and scoop her into my arms. She giggles as I carry her toward the bed.