Epilogue #2
When we made Killian Mila’s godfather, he left the house for three hours and came back with a contract for us to sign, legally promising he would always look after Mila.
He called it a contract, but it looked suspiciously like a will.
We’re all standing around shooting the shit when Ryan abruptly stops mid-sentence and squeals.
It is not a dignified sound. It is not even a sound I would expect from a human of his size. It’s high, shocked, and loud enough that everyone in the backyard jerks toward him.
“Holy fuck—wait—wait, wait, wait,” he yells, pointing to the playpen so aggressively his drink nearly spills. “Look! Look at her!”
I turn so fast my neck twinges.
Mila is standing.
For a second, my brain refuses to understand the picture. She is in the middle of the playpen area, one hand hovering in the air, the other not holding anything at all.
She’s standing on her own two ridiculous, chubby legs in her duck romper, bare feet planted on the soft mat, eyes wide with the startled wonder of someone who has accidentally become vertical and is considering whether to make it a lifestyle.
“She’s standing!” Ryan whispers loudly. “She’s standing, she’s standing, nobody breathe, holy shit, look at her!”
“Language, and don’t rush her,” Liam calls immediately, which is hilarious because he is already on his feet with Nate next to him.
“Everyone shut up,” Sage says, taking one step forward and then stopping himself as if he’s physically fighting the urge to assist.
Roman turns in the pool so fast that water sloshes over the ledge. Damon is already holding up his phone with a soft smile on his face.
“Do not scare her,” Adrian warns, somehow calm and intense at once.
Thorn lifts his arm from over his face, sees Mila upright, and sits up so fast his lounge chair almost tips. “Oh, fuck.”
Mila wobbles and every adult in the yard inhales at once.
Julian and I move at the same time. Not running, because that might scare her, and because Liam would probably tackle us into the grass.
Julian reaches the gate half a second before me, unlatches it with hands that are not nearly as steady as he pretends, and we both crouch just inside, several feet away from her.
Mila beams when she sees us, and it is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
“Hi, baby girl,” I say, and my voice comes out shredded. “Look at you.”
Julian is beside me, one knee on the mat, one hand hovering just above the ground, ready to catch her from any direction without crowding her.
His eyes are wet already, because Julian West can survive statements, prosecutions, family rejection, and football injuries with his jaw locked, but my daughter standing on her own at her first birthday party is apparently the thing that cracks him open.
“That’s it, meisiekind,” he says softly. “You’ve got it.”
Mila makes a delighted, breathy sound, then she takes one step, and I stop breathing.
It’s barely a step. More like a controlled fall that her foot interrupts at the last second, but it counts. It counts so much the entire yard loses its mind in whispered gasps and strangled noises.
She takes another step, arms lifting for balance and fingers spread wide while her little face is scrunched with fierce concentration. I hold my hands out, not too far, not too close. Every instinct in me wants to scoop her up and protect her from falling, but this is hers.
Her step. Her risk. Her tiny, wobbling declaration that the world is something she intends to cross on her own feet.
“You can do it, baby girl,” I say, and now there’s no hiding the tears in my voice.
Mila’s eyes flick to Julian, then back to me, then she grins with four tiny teeth and takes two more uneven steps.
“Dada!” she squeals.
The word hits me so hard I almost miss catching her when she pitches forward on the last step. I scoop her into my arms with a sound that might be a laugh and might be a sob and is absolutely not anything I’m willing to identify in public.
Her little body slams against my chest, warm and sturdy and alive, and she laughs like falling into me was part of the plan all along.
The yard erupts.
Ryan screams, and Liam tells him to lower his volume while crying.
Thorn says “holy fuck” and then immediately looks toward Liam as if expecting discipline.
Roman cheers from the pool deck. Damon keeps filming while wiping his face.
Luca claps once, hard, then drags Sage into his side.
Adrian, who almost never raises his voice, says, “That was excellent,” with such solemn pride that I laugh into Mila’s hair.
Julian’s hand is on my back, his forehead pressing briefly to my shoulder beside Mila. He’s laughing and crying too, and when I turn my head, he kisses my temple without caring who sees.
“She walked,” I say, uselessly.
“She walked,” he answers, just as uselessly.
He laughs, and I lean forward just enough to press my forehead to his for one second with Mila between us, all three of us folded into this tiny impossible celebration on the grass.