22. Chapter 22
T wo days.
Two days have passed since I became Mrs. Grant Campbell. I still can’t believe that I’m a wife, and Grant pulled off the most epic ceremony and intimate reception. I guess it’s true what they say; everyone has a weak spot. Turns out, I’m his.
When he proposed such an outlandish idea, I thought he was crazy. The kind of certifiable that gets you committed. And maybe I’m as crazy because the more he talked and laid out all the benefits, the less foolish everything felt.
Or maybe childhood trauma has fucked me up more than I thought.
I spent yesterday in a blissed-out fog, the kind of exhaustion that’s not physical but emotional.
My morning was spent on FaceTime with my aunt, thanks to my cousin’s big mouth.
Aunt Bethany was less than thrilled about my elopement.
Not because she doesn’t want me happy, but because she worries.
She always has—both as my aunt and as the mother figure I’ve leaned on my whole life.
Once she was convinced this was what I wanted—and that I hadn’t been abducted by aliens—she demanded pictures.
Thankfully, Bret snapped more pictures than I even realized.
With that conversation out of the way, I moved on to the mental to-do list that felt suffocating.
Brynn had shipped a small box of Cleo’s clothes.
I washed everything, folded onesies and tiny socks that felt too small for a human.
Diapers and wipes are stacked neatly in caddies for quick, easy changes.
I rearranged part of my room to make sure baby girl had plenty of space.
Everything was done in preparation for her arrival.
Our daughter.
She’s his now, too, and the relief that brings with it is something I can’t explain. My daughter will grow up with the love of a man who chose her. We’ll both end up with a man who chooses us when the world is full of people who wouldn’t.
And with that, my mind drifted to Friday night. The soft murmurs spoke against my skin. The promises of our future. The way he held me while dancing to one of my favorite songs. The love shared between us.
Friday brought a warmth I didn’t know I was missing. Saturday brought a productive kind of nesting. But today…I’m nauseous.
And it’s not the baby pressing against my ribs or the pressure building in my lower abdomen as it prepares for labor. It’s the nerves for the day. The deep, twisting, sinking kind of nerves.
Grant’s parents texted last night, requesting—inviting—us to dinner. My nerves have been shot since the moment the message came through. I know I can’t avoid them forever, but the thought of facing them terrifies me.
It’s not like I haven’t met them before.
But it would be nice if, just once, they saw me in a favorable light.
Instead, they’ve seen me hungover. Pregnant.
And now, I’m married to their son. They know about the wedding, but they think it happened weeks ago.
The truth is, we’ve been racing down this highway of lies, and the knots just keep tightening.
What if they don’t accept me? Or this marriage? Or my daughter?
I know I shouldn’t care what they think.
At the end of the day, I have Grant. And that’s enough.
But it’s more than that—this is his family.
A family he’s close with. It’s the kind of family you see on TV, where the parents love each other, the mom prepares home-cooked meals every night, and both parents support their kids.
As someone who barely had a traditional family, I don’t want to be the rift between them.
It would kill me to know I caused a strain in their relationship.
“Relax, Peach,” Grant’s deep timber interrupts my spiral as he places a hand on top of mine. One that’s been absentmindedly rubbing circles on my stomach.
“They’re going to know,” I whisper.
Grant glances over, his hazel eyes boring into the side of my head. “They won’t.”
“Your dad’s going to know it’s a lie. You see him every day and never said a word. And your mom? One look at me, and her spidey-mom senses will tell her it’s fake.” My chest heaves as panic rises with each word, the spiral impossible to stop.
He hits the brakes, flicking on his turn signal and navigating us into a vacant street parking spot. “Peach, breathe. Jesus.”
At the sound of his concerned voice, I inhale a shaky breath.
“First of all, nothing about this is fake. It might have escalated at a pace we weren’t expecting, but nothing, nothing about what we have has ever been fake.”
I nod as he continues. “Secondly, they’re never going to know that we were married on Friday. For all they know, we’ve been married for a month, but we’ve been soaking in the transition quietly.”
“What if she hates me? What if she thinks I’m some gold-digging whore tying you down with someone else’s baby?”
His jaw tenses, and I can tell he’s biting his cheek to keep from reacting. “She’s not someone else’s baby. She’s ours. Yours and mine. End of conversation on that front.”
He brings his hand to my face, his thumb and forefinger gripping my chin to turn my attention to him.
“I mean it, Savannah. You’re not a gold digger or a whore, and I really hate the thought of you thinking that.
You’re not trapping me and saddling me with a responsibility I didn’t want.
If I didn’t want her , I never would’ve married you . There is no you and I without her.”
I sniffle, trying to swallow down the lump building in my throat, but it’s a lost cause. Between the exhaustion and hormones, I’m a raging ball of emotions. Tears break free and streak down my face. Grant’s thumb brushes them away as quickly as they fall.
“I hate seeing you cry,” he mumbles.
I huff a laugh. “Well, get used to it. It’s all I seem to do lately.”
“Get it out of your system now, baby. Everything is going to be fine.” He says the words with more authority than before, and I’m not sure who he’s trying to convince.
Me or him. But I nod anyway, pasting on false bravado.
The look I give him must work because, as quickly as we stopped, Grant’s navigating us back on the road that leads to his parents’ house.
It isn’t long before Grant pulls into the driveway. I stare at the sprawling house with its perfect landscaping, straight out of Home and Garden. For his dad being a hotshot coach, the place is impressive but not over the top. Humble, even.
Grant steps out, rounding the truck, as he comes around to open my door.
“You know I can get my door, right?”
He rolls his eyes as his hand slides into mine.
I try to keep my nerves from showing, the need to fidget overwhelming.
The closer we get to the front door, the tighter my chest aches.
I think not knowing what I’m walking into is the worst part.
Should I be expecting an ambush of disappointment, acceptance with open arms, or a lashing?
Grant opens the door and calls out like it’s any other day. “Hey! We’re here.”
As Grant leads me farther inside, I take it all in. Family pictures on the walls. Decorations that could’ve come from a magazine. Everything is pristine, almost too perfect—and guilt gnaws at me for dragging our mess into their beautiful home.
A shuffle of footsteps pulls my attention. My body stiffens as Mrs. Campbell appears around the corner, apron tied at her waist, drying her hands on a dish towel. Her eyes land on me, and for a beat, everything freezes. I brace for the cruel words I’m used to from my mother.
But they don’t come. Instead, she smiles. Small. Hesitant. But a smile, nonetheless.
“Hi, kids.” Her gaze flicks to my bump, then to our attached hands. “Dinner’s almost ready. Everyone’s out on the patio.”
“Th—” I start, before clearing my throat. “Thanks for having us.”
She nods and steps aside. Her eyes linger on Grant for a beat as something unsaid passes between them.
Moving through the room, Grant pushes open the patio doors as we’re met with sounds of laughter.
I’m thankful Crew and Bret were able to come tonight.
I don’t think I could’ve handled our first family dinner without them.
Looking around Grant’s shoulders, my gaze locks onto Bret first. She’s talking animatedly while scrolling on her phone, a glass Coke bottle in front of her.
Her eyes flick up, and a beaming smile spreads across her lips as she sees us.
“Hey, you two!”
I give a nervous wave as Mr. Campbell turns his attention to us. His stoic expression, much like his son’s, isn’t calming my nerves. Tension swirls in the air heavily. I hold my breath, bracing for the shoe to drop. For everything to blow apart. But it doesn’t.
Mr. Campbell stands from his chair and walks toward us before stopping in front of me. My heart sinks to my stomach, waiting for his next move. And what he does next shocks me.
He leans down and wraps his arms around me. I stiffen at the contact, frozen in shock as he hugs me. “Savannah, welcome.”
Eyes widening in shock, I look to Grant. He nods toward me with encouragement, and I snap back into reality. My arms wrap around his dad’s in a gentle hug. “Uh, thank you for having me, Mr. Campbell.”
Stepping back, the hug is broken as he gestures toward the table. “Have a seat, and please, call me Derek.”
I nod, walking toward the empty seat across from Bret. Grant takes the one on my right, putting him directly across from Crew.
Derek sits at the head of the table between Crew and Grant as we wait for Mrs. Campbell to join us. He isn’t rude to me or cold, but the energy shifts in a palpable way.
Conversation resumes as Bret tells us about her latest summer league basketball game. Even beneath the laughter, I feel it. The storm presses in, ready to break.
Mrs. Campbell, or Emily, as she insisted I call her, brings out the platters of barbecue chicken, roasted potatoes, corn on the cob, and macaroni salad. When I asked if she needed help, she insisted that I was to sit and relax.