We Are Us

So I left.

I fucking left and a fucking storm blew in and ripped my fucking world to shreds.

I don’t regret leaving; I had to. But I wish I’d done things differently.

I should have done everything differently.

I guess… I guess I thought Poppy’s life would stay more or less the same. I thought she’d get my note and the phone and photos of us I had developed at the shop in town, and we’d keep in touch while I got my mom settled in a new life.

I didn’t know we would spend nearly a year bouncing from state to state, usually because she decided to call my dad when she felt sad or lonely or just tired of moving. Then she’d come to her senses, or I’d see the look on her face and know what she’d done. And then we’d have to move again.

I couldn’t have imagined that I’d end up killing my own father, or how much it would screw with my head.

And I definitely didn’t know what Tucker Stockton—that entitled, arrogant, ass, fuck—would do to my girl. That he’d screw with her head so badly she lost faith in us.

I am hers and she is mine and we are us.

I had those words tattooed right over my heart after I left, at the first town that had a tattoo artist good enough to do them justice. They are the first thing I see in the mirror every morning, and the last thing Poppy sees every night, just before she rests her head over them. She says they give her the sweetest dreams.

I remember wanting to claw my marked skin off my body the day she pushed me away, just before her wedding.

I didn’t shave without a T-shirt on for years, just so I wouldn’t have to see the proof of what I’d lost.

I hated Tucker before I knew anything about him, except that he was the reason Poppy and I weren’t together. As reasons go, it was a damn good one. And definitely all I needed.

Poppy still doesn’t know this, but I stood outside the Metropolitan Club on the day of her wedding. I saw Stockton walk in. There was something about him. A shadow inside his eyes. Something rotten beneath his swanky, polished exterior.

What Poppy endured with him was awful. Her assault. The mind games and gas-lighting. Losing her first pregnancy, his affair with her sister, escaping the country. I’d give anything to have sheltered Poppy from every ounce of pain, every kind of tragedy.

I didn’t. And I can’t.

But I can love and honor and cherish her, just like I promised in an intimate backyard ceremony at the edge of the Sackett preserve, soon after Stockton’s death certificate was issued. It wasn’t worth jumping through the legal hoops involved in seeking a divorce when we didn’t even know where her husband was. And, to be honest, we were too busy, too happy to think much about anything besides finding our way back to each other and becoming a family.

Though Valentina isn’t my child by blood, she is every bit my daughter as Declan is my son.

And Poppy, the most magnificent woman I’ve ever known, is my wife.

Right now, my entire world is contained in the space of one mattress.

Yeah. Definitely one lucky son of a bitch.

Once the pile of pancakes is mostly depleted, I pick up the tray. “Who’s up for a game of Uno?”

“Me!”

“Me!”

“It’s my turn to shuffle,” Declan yells, chasing after Valentina down the stairs. Our kids only have two speeds—completely still, when they’re eating or sleeping, or ru

When I glance back at Poppy, all alone in bed, she looks a little forlorn. “What about me?”

“Don’t you want to rest?”

She sighs. “I just woke up.”

“You’re sleeping for three.”

“Are you just trying to keep me up here so you might actually win a game?”

I lift a brow. “Mrs. Cross, are you really trying to trash talk me into letting you play? The doctor said you should be taking it easy and those victory dances of yours have to be bad for your blood pressure.”

Truthfully, I love that she gets competitive during our card games. She does let the kids win occasionally, and Valentina is getting so good she can sometimes win on her own. But when Poppy wins, she is completely incapable of holding back her excitement.

Even now there is triumph in her smile. “Victory dance? So you’re admitting that I am the superior Uno player?”

“I admit nothing,” I say, biting down on my own grin as I turn to go. At the door, I pause. “So, when is Je

She glances at the clock. “I didn’t realize it was so late. She should be here any minute.” The words are barely out of her mouth when I hear the doorbell, followed immediately by shouts of “Je

Poppy swings her feet out of the bed. “I’ll get ready and meet you downst— Oh no.”

Her head is hanging low on her shoulders, her horrified expression aimed at the sudden wetness pooling between her thighs.

Even though it feels like my heart has relocated to my throat, I reach for reserves drilled into me from my time in the military. When in doubt, follow protocol. In this case, protocol means getting Poppy to a hospital as soon as possible.

Je

I try talking to Poppy as I drive, blatantly ignoring street lights, stop signs, and speed limits, but Poppy is muttering to herself, or maybe to the babies.

I take her hand. “This time is different.”

“No. No, it’s just like before. I’m losing them, Gav. We’re losing them.”

My mouth presses into a hard line. I’m not sure how to argue with her. I’m not a doctor and I ca

Poppy is taken by wheelchair up to the labor and delivery floor while I am segued by the administration check-in process. Insurance forms and sign in documents. It’s only a few minutes but every second I’m not by my wife’s side is an agonizing lifetime.

Finally, I’m released and I race down the corridor toward the bank of elevators, avoiding the crowd of people already waiting by throwing open the door to the stairwell and taking them three at a time. Four floors, eight flights. Poppy is already in a room just across from the nurse’s station, and I can see the whites of her eyes as a team of doctors and nurses hook her up to machines, start an IV, and poke and prod at her.

I rush to her side, pressing a kiss to her clammy forehead. Whatever happens now, we’ll get through it.

One of the doctors looks at me over his face mask. “You the dad?”

I nod. “Yes.”

I think he smiles because his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Looks like your kids are about two months early. You couldn’t convince them to sit tight a little longer?”

It hits me that he’s joking. Joking. That means—“Are they okay?”

He jerks his chin toward one of the machines and glances at a nurse. “Turn up the volume on that, will you?”

A second later, the room is filled with that strange and beautiful sound, the whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of my babies heartbeats, still safe inside Poppy’s womb. She blinks slowly, tears leaking from the rims of her eyes as some of the color returns to her face. “Is that… two heartbeats?”