Ugly Love Part 29

I feel helpless.

Maybe she wants her mom.

"Do you want me to call them?"

She shakes her head. "Not yet," she says. "After."

She just wants it to be us. I like this. I just want it to be us, too.

A nurse helps her out of the car. They take us to a room. I get Rachel whatever she needs.

"Do you need ice?"

I get it for her.

"Do you want a cold rag?"

I get it for her.

"Do you want me to turn off the TV?"

I turn it off.

"Do you want another blanket, Rachel? You look cold."

I don't get her a blanket. She's not cold.

"Do you want more ice?"

She doesn't want more ice.

She wants me to shut up.

I shut up.

"Give me your hand, Miles."

I give it to her.

I want it back.

She's hurting it.

I let her keep it anyway.

She's quiet. She never makes a sound. She just breathes. She's incredible.

I'm crying. I don't know why.

I love you so G.o.dd.a.m.n much, Rachel.

The doctor tells her she's almost done. I kiss her on the forehead.

It happens.

I'm a dad.

She's a mom.

"It's a boy," the doctor says.

She's holding him. She's holding my heart.

He stops crying. He tries to open his eyes.

Rachel cries.

Rachel laughs.

Rachel tells me thank you.

Rachel tells me thank you. Like she wasn't the one who created this.

Rachel is crazy.

"I love him so much, Miles," she says. She's still crying. "I love him so, so much."

"I love him, too," I tell her. I touch him. I want to hold him, but I want her to hold him even more. She looks beautiful holding him.

Rachel looks up at me. "Will you please tell me his name now?"

I was hoping he would be a boy so I could have this moment.

I was hoping I could tell her what her son's name is, because I know she'll love it.

I hope she remembers the moment she became my everything.

Miles is going to show you the way to Mr. Clayton's cla.s.s, Rachel.

"His name is Clayton."

She begins to sob.

She remembers.

"It's perfect," she says, her words mixed with tears.

She's crying too hard now. She wants me to hold him.

I sit on the bed with her and take him.

I'm holding him.

I'm holding my son.

Rachel rests her head on my arm, and we stare at him.

We stare at him for so long. I tell Rachel he has her red hair.

Rachel says he has my lips. I tell Rachel I hope he has her personality. She disagrees and says she hopes he's just like me.

"He makes life so much better," she says.

"He sure does."

"We're so lucky, Miles."

"We sure are."

Rachel squeezes my hand.

"We've got this," Rachel whispers.

"We've so got this," I tell her.

Clayton yawns, and it makes us both laugh.

Since when did yawns become so incredible?

I touch his fingers.

We love you so much, Clayton.

chapter twenty-seven.

TATE.

I drop down into the chair beside Cap, still dressed from head to toe in my scrubs. As soon as I got home from work, I studied for two hours straight. It's already after ten, and I haven't even had supper yet, which is why I'm sitting next to Cap right now, because he's getting to know my habits and had a pizza ordered for the two of us.

I hand him a slice and grab my own, then shut the lid and set it on the floor in front of me. I shove a huge bite into my mouth, but Cap is staring down at the slice in his hand.

"It's really sad when pizza can make it to you faster than the police" he says. "I just ordered this ten minutes ago." He takes a bite and closes his eyes like it's the best thing he's ever tasted.

We both finish our slices, and I reach for another one. He shakes his head when I offer him a second slice, so I put it back in the box.

"So?" he says. "Any progress between the boy and his friend?"

It makes me laugh that he constantly refers to Miles as the boy. I nod and respond with a mouthful. "Kind of," I say. "They had a successful game night, but I think it was only successful because Miles pretended I wasn't there the whole time. I know he's trying to respect Corbin, but it kind of makes me feel like s.h.i.+t in the process, you know?"

Cap nods like he understands. I'm not sure that he does, but I like that he always listens so attentively anyway. "Of course, he texted me the entire time he was in the living room sitting next to Corbin, so I guess I have that. But then there are weeks like this week when he's not even in the same state, and it's like I don't even exist to him. No texts. No phone calls. I'm pretty sure he only thinks about me when I'm within ten feet of him."

Cap shakes his head. "I doubt that. I bet that boy thinks about you a lot more than he lets on."

I'd like to believe those words to be true, but I'm not so sure they are.

"But if he doesn't," Cap says, "you can't be mad at him for it. Wasn't part of the agreement, now, was it?"

I roll my eyes. I hate that he always brings me back to the fact that Miles isn't the one breaking rules or agreements. I'm the one with the problems in our arrangement, and that's no one's fault but my own.

"How did I get myself into this mess?" I ask, not even needing an answer. I know how I got myself into this mess. I also know how to get out of it . . . I just don't want to.

"You ever heard that expression, 'When life gives you lemons . . .'?"

"Make lemonade," I say, finis.h.i.+ng his quote.

Cap looks at me and shakes his head. "That's not how it goes," he says. "When life gives you lemons, make sure you know whose eyes you need to squeeze them in."

I laugh, grab another slice of pizza, and wonder how in the h.e.l.l I ended up with an eighty-year-old man as my best friend.

Corbin's home phone never rings. Especially after midnight. I throw the covers off and grab a T-s.h.i.+rt, then pull it over my head. I don't know why I bother getting dressed. Corbin's gone, and Miles isn't due back until tomorrow.

I make it to the kitchen on the fifth ring, right as the answering machine picks up. I cancel the message, then put the phone to my ear.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"Tate!" my mother says. "Oh, my G.o.d, Tate."

Her voice is panicked, which immediately causes me to panic. "What is it?"

"A plane. A plane crashed about half an hour ago, and I can't get through to the airline. Have you talked to your brother?"

My knees meet the floor. "Are you sure it was his airline?" I ask her. My voice sounds so terrified I don't even recognize it. It sounds as terrified as hers did the last time this happened.

I was only six, but I remember every single detail as if it happened yesterday, down to the moon-and-star pajamas I was wearing. My father was on a domestic flight, and we had turned on the news right after dinner and saw that one of the planes had gone down due to engine failure. Everyone on board was killed. I remember watching my mother on the phone with the airline, hysterical, trying to find out information on who the pilot was. We found out it wasn't him within the hour, but that hour was one of the scariest of our lives.

Until now.

I rush to my room and grab my cell phone off my nightstand and immediately dial his number. "Have you tried calling him?" I ask my mother as I make my way back to the living room. I try to make it to the couch, but for some reason, the floor seems more comforting. I kneel down again, almost as if I'm in prayer mode.

I guess I am.