“We’ll figure it out,” she says, holding a hand out to help me up. “Together.”
A short, intense flash of a memory hits me when my fingers connect with hers.
The moment she told me she was pregnant. When I sat in the dust of my brother’s driveway and she stood above me, holding out a hand.
So much has changed since then. Except for one thing.
We’ll figure it out.
We’re figuring it out.
I kiss her quickly and then head to the bathroom to shower.
I pause in the doorway and grin. “I’m gonna ask you to marry me someday,” I say, tapping the doorframe, and she rolls her eyes.
“Go shower,” she says, pulling a thick strand of her hair out of our baby’s clutches.
“And you’re going to say yes,” I call over my shoulder as I slip into the bathroom.
The whole thing is about to start again, but this time, I have no doubts, no insecurities, no need to be anything other than exactly who I am.
I don’t want anything but this.
But her.