Chapter 23
Megan - One Month later
Black Friday shopping has never been something I wanted to do.
But here I am, standing in the middle of Target at nine in the morning with a half-full cart already. When you’re in a family this big, Black Friday deals are practically lifesaving.
I push my cart down the home goods aisle, scanning for something—anything—that screams Maureen Jennings.
The store is packed. Strollers. Couples arguing over whether they need a new coffee maker. Teenagers clustered around the electronics section like it’s the biggest decision of their life.
I weave through them all, checking items off my list one by one. A heated blanket for Addison. A cookbook of slow cooker recipes for my mom. Some kind of tool thing for one of my brothers-in-law that I’ll have to ask Mason about later because I have no idea what it actually does.
By the time I make it to the toy section, my feet hurt and my patience is wearing thin.
I grab a baby doll for Emma. A set of plush rattles for Gage. Matching pink tutus for Cora and Hallie. And then I realize I need wrapping paper.
I turn my cart around and stop at the baby section; it cuts out a corner, I’ll get there faster, but I hesitate.
It’s fine. I’ll just walk fast, eyes forward, not looking.
But I can’t help it. Rows of tiny clothes. Onesies in every color. The little hats, and socks so small they look like doll accessories. And bows. Don’t even get me started on the bows.
My chest tightens, and suddenly I’m frozen in the middle of the aisle, staring at an outfit for a baby that I don’t have.
I force myself to move. One step. Then another. But everywhere I look, there’s more. Cribs. Changing tables. Bottles. Pacifiers. Diaper bags with cute patterns.
My throat burns. I grip the handle of my cart tighter and keep walking, faster now, past the nursery décor and the baby monitors, like they’re watching me. Judging me.
By the time I reach the wrapping paper, my hands are shaking.
I grab the first roll I see, a generic snowman pattern, and I shove three rolls into the cart without even checking the price. Then I head straight for the checkout.
The cashier is friendly. Too friendly. She comments on the candle I got Ella, asks if I’m done with my Christmas shopping, makes small talk I don’t really want to have.
I swipe my card, grab my bags, and walk out into the cold November air. I toss all the bags into the trunk and slide into the driver’s seat…and the second the silence comes, I lose it.
The tears come fast and hard, the kind that make your whole body shake. I don’t even try to stop them; it’s useless.
I can’t do this. I can’t keep pretending I’m fine when I’m not. Because this wasn’t supposed to be a problem. This was supposed to come easy for us.
We’re trying. We’ve been trying for almost five months and it’s not working.
My phone buzzes in the cupholder. I glance down through blurred vision.
Mason: How’s the shopping going?
I stare at the screen, debating whether to answer. My fingers hover over the keyboard, but I don’t know what to say.
Fine. Terrible. I just had a breakdown in Target because I saw baby hair bows. But before I can decide, it rings, Mason’s name and picture taking over my screen.
I almost don’t answer. But I know if I don’t, he’ll worry. So I swipe to accept and bring the phone to my ear.
“Hey,” I manage, voice cracking immediately.
“Hey?” His tone shifts instantly. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.” He pauses. “Where are you?”
“Target parking lot.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing,” I insist, swiping at my cheeks. “I’m just…I’m being dramatic.”
“Megan.”
The way he says my name, firm but gentle, makes me break even more.
“I walked through the baby section,” I whisper. “And I just…I couldn’t handle it.”
“Sweetheart—”
“And I know it’s only been a few months, I know that, but it’s hard when you never thought it would be you,” I interrupt, the words spilling out faster now. “I’m just so angry. I’m angry at God. I’m angry at my body. I’m angry that this is so easy for everyone else and so hard for us.”
“I’m coming to you,” Mason says.
“No. It’s fine. I’m—”
“I’m coming. I’ll be there in five minutes. Stay there.”
The line goes dead and I sit in silence, phone still pressed to my ear, tears still streaming down my face. And I wait.
Mason pulls into the parking lot exactly five minutes later, his patrol car cutting across the lanes until he’s parked right beside me.
He gets out, adjusting his duty belt as he walks around to my side. He pulls open my door and crouches down so we’re eye level.
“Hey,” he says softly.
I can’t look at him. “I’m sorry. You didn’t have to come.”
“Yes, I did.”
He reaches for me, his fingers rubbing my arm.
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not. Stop pretending,” he says quietly. “You don’t have to be okay all the time. Not with me. You’re allowed to be hurt. And sad. And frustrated. God can handle it, Meg. He’s not going to punish you for that.”
“I said I’m fine.”
His jaw tightens.
“That’s bull and you know it.”
“What do you want me to say, Mason?”
“I want you to stop pretending you’re fine when you’re clearly not.”
“I’m handling it,” I snap.
“By shutting me out?”
“I’m not shutting you out!”
“Yes, you are. You weren’t going to call me right now and tell me you were sitting here having a breakdown in a Target parking lot, were you?”
My throat burns.
“Exactly. You’re not leaning on me, or letting me in. You aren’t letting me help you carry this.”
“I don’t want to be carried,” I blurt out, the words spilling out before I can stop them. “I’m tired of needing help. I’m tired of crying. I’m tired of feeling broken.”
“I know,” he starts softly. “But you’re not broken. You’re—”
His radio crackles to life, sharp and sudden, cutting straight through the moment. He exhales, already reaching for it, turning the volume down just enough to listen without fully stepping away.
I can see it on his face—the shift. Duty pulling him back before he can finish what he was saying.
“I have to go,” he says quietly, like he hates the timing as much as I do. He steps closer and presses a kiss to my forehead, lingering just a second longer than necessary. “I love you. I’ll see you tonight, okay?”
I wipe at my cheek and nod, even though my chest feels hollow. “Yeah.”
He backs away, eyes still on me as he moves toward the car. Then he’s turning his head, already responding into the radio, posture changing, shoulders squaring.
The engine roars. Lights flash. Sirens cut through the air.
And just like that, he’s gone.
* * *
Mason didn’t get home until after nine last night.
I’d already changed into pajamas and was curled up on the couch with a book I wasn’t really reading when I heard his truck pull in.
He came through the door looking exhausted, apologized immediately for having to leave me in the parking lot, and I told him it was fine. Because it was. His job is his job. I knew that when I married him.
Mason’s already dressed by the time I come downstairs—jeans, a flannel, boots. He’s leaning against the counter with a cup of coffee in his hand, scrolling through his phone.
“Morning,” he says, looking up with a soft smile.
“Morning.” I cross the kitchen and reach for my own mug. “You ready?”
“Yeah.” He sets his phone down and steps closer, wrapping his arms around my waist from behind as I pour my coffee. “Happy engagement anniversary, Mrs. Jennings.”
I smile, leaning back against him. “Happy engagement anniversary.”
He presses a kiss to the side of my head, and it steadies me.
The drive to the diner is easy. His hand rests on my thigh, his thumb tracing circles over my jeans. The radio plays softly in the background—some country song about small towns, falling in love, and beer.
“Can’t believe it’s been a year,” he says, glancing over at me.
“I know.” I look out the window at the skyline painted blue and orange. “Feels like yesterday and forever ago at the same time.”
“Yeah.” He squeezes my leg gently. “Now, here we are, already four months into marriage.”
I smile. “Wild.”
We pull into the parking lot a few minutes later, and Mason hops out first, jogging around to open my door before I can do it myself.
“Such a gentleman,” I tease.
“Only for you,” he says with a grin, offering his hand.
I take it, and we walk into the diner together.
It’s warm and smells like coffee, breakfast cake, and bacon. It’s the same place Mason took me on one of our first dates—a little hole-in-the-wall spot with red vinyl booths and a jukebox in the corner that, surprisingly, still works.
The hostess seats us in a booth by the window, and Mason slides in across from me, already smiling.
“You remember the first time we came here?” he asks.
“Of course.” I lean back, wrapping my hands around the mug of coffee the waitress just poured. “You ordered the biggest breakfast on the menu and I thought, ‘There’s no way he’s finishing that.’”
“And I did.”
“You did,” I admit with a laugh. “I was impressed.”
“And you ordered yogurt with a side of fruit,” he teases.
“I was nervous.” I laugh, and he just shakes his head.
The waitress comes back, and we order—pancakes for me, eggs and sausage for him, home fries to share because the serving size is huge.
Once she’s gone, Mason leans forward, elbows on the table, that soft look in his eyes that still makes my stomach flip.
“I was so nervous to ask you,” he admits with a laugh.
“You didn’t seem that nervous.”
“I was shaking the entire time.” He laughs. “I kept thinking, ‘What if she says no? What if I’m moving too fast? What if she thinks I’m crazy?’”
“I didn’t think you were crazy.”
He smiles, and for a second, it’s like we’re back in that field. Just the two of us under the sunset.
“I knew I wanted to marry you the second time we went out,” he says quietly. “Didn’t say it out loud because I didn’t want to scare you off. But I knew.”
My throat tightens. “Really?”
“Yeah.” He reaches across the table and takes my hand.
I squeeze it, blinking back the emotion. “I knew too, you know. Maybe not the second date, but…close. The way you looked at me. Like I was the only person in the room.”
“Because you were.”
The waitress brings our food, and we pull our hands apart just in time for her to set everything down.
Mason prays, something short but still sweet, and we eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the sounds of the diner humming around us—spoons clinking in coffee mugs, old men sitting at the counter talking about the snowstorm coming next week.
We finish breakfast slowly, talking about lighter things—Christmas, what I got his siblings so far, whether we should get a real tree or a fake one.
By the time we leave, the sun’s fully broken through the clouds, and Mason wraps his arm around my shoulders as we walk back to the truck.
“Thanks for breakfast,” I say, leaning into him.
“Thanks for saying yes a year ago.”
I laugh, tilting my head up to look at him. “Thanks for asking.”
He grins, stopping to kiss me right there in the parking lot. And as we drive home, his hand in mine, I tell myself that as long as I have him, I can get through anything.