Chapter 139 Our Son
Chapter 139 Our Son
Chapter Forty
Cade
Pain changes the shape of time.
Minutes stretch.
Hours disappear.
The room becomes a collection of sensations rather than a place.
Bright lights.
Cool sheets.
The tight pressure of Charlie’s hand around mine.
The stormy scent of rain and ocean air surrounding me every time panic begins to rise.
Someone tells me to breathe.
I consider telling them I have been breathing my entire life and don’t require instructions.
Then another contraction tears through me, and words become impossible.
My body knows what to do.
That should comfort me.
It doesn’t.
There is something terrifying about surrendering control to something so much larger than thought. I can’t reason my way through this. I can’t make a schedule. I can’t organize the pain into manageable pieces.
I can only endure it.
Charlie remains beside me.
He hasn’t moved away once.
His hair is a mess from running his hands through it. His shirt is wrinkled and damp where I have pressed my face against his chest. There are red marks across his fingers from the force of my grip.
He doesn’t complain.
He watches me as though nothing outside this room exists.
“Again,” the doctor says.
I hate that word.
Charlie leans close.
“You’ve got this.”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
“I’m going to kill you.”
“That’s fair.”
The contraction builds.
I bear down.
Pain burns through my body.
A sound leaves me that I don’t recognize.
Charlie’s grip tightens.
“That’s it,” someone says. “Again.”
“I just did it,” I gasp.
“I know,” Charlie says.
“Then why are they telling me to do it again?”
He brushes damp hair from my forehead.
“Because apparently they’re unreasonable.”
The doctor gives him a look.
Charlie doesn’t notice.
Or doesn’t care.
Another wave comes.
I feel it before the monitor changes.
Every muscle tightens.
My body bears down on instinct.
Charlie’s scent fills my lungs.
Rain.
Salt.
The promise of a storm breaking over the ocean.
It grounds me.
I cling to it.
To him.
There was a time when relying on Charlie frightened me more than anything.
I thought needing him made me weak.
I thought his age meant he couldn’t understand permanence.
I thought I was protecting both of us by refusing to trust what existed between us.
Now I hold his hand with everything I have and let him keep me together.
“Look at me,” he says.
I force my eyes open.
His are bright.
Terrified.
Devoted.
“I’m here.”
I know.
For the first time, I let myself believe he always will be.
The contraction eases.
I fall back against the pillows.
“I can’t,” I whisper.
Charlie wipes my forehead with a cool cloth.
“You can.”
“No.”
“You can.”
“I’m too tired.”
His expression breaks.
Only for a second.
Then he leans closer.
“I know.”
Tears burn behind my eyes.
“I want it to stop.”
“I know.”
“I want him here.”
“He’s almost here.”
“You don’t know that.”
“The doctor said—”
“The doctor has said almost three times.”
Charlie glances toward the end of the bed.
“Is he almost here?”
“Yes,” the doctor says.
Charlie looks back at me.
“See?”
“I still hate you.”
“I love you too.”
Despite everything, a broken laugh escapes me.
It turns into a gasp as another contraction begins.
The room sharpens.
Voices become commands.
Pressure.
Pain.
Charlie’s hand.
My body takes over.
I push.
Someone says they can see the baby’s head.
Charlie makes a strangled sound.
I turn my face toward him.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing bad.”
“Charlie.”
“He has hair.”
I stare at him.
“You looked?”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“You looked.”
“They told me to.”
“No one told you to.”
The doctor laughs.
“Focus, Cade.”
“I am focused.”
“You’re arguing.”
“It helps.”
Another contraction takes the choice from me.
I bear down.
Charlie braces himself beside me.
His forehead presses to mine.
“Come on,” he whispers. “You’re so close.”
I don’t feel close.
I feel split open.
Exhausted.
Terrified.
But beneath all of it is something else.
A fierce pull.
My child.
My son.
Waiting on the other side of this pain.
I push again.
The pressure changes.
The doctor speaks quickly.
Then the room fills with a cry.
It’s sharp.
Small.
Furious.
Everything stops.
The pain is still there.
People are still moving.
The monitors continue beeping.
But the sound of my son crying cuts through all of it.
My breath catches.
Charlie goes completely still.
Then he begins to cry.
Not quietly.
His face crumples.
Tears fall freely.
“Oh my God,” he says.
I can’t speak.
The baby is lifted briefly, impossibly small and real.
Then he’s placed against my chest.
Warm skin.
Dark, damp hair.
Tiny limbs drawn close.
His cry softens the moment he touches me.
My hands shake as I cover his back.
He fits beneath my palm.
He’s here.
Our son is here.
Emotion rises so violently that it steals my breath.
I stare down at him.
His face is red and scrunched with outrage. His mouth opens in another small cry. His fingers curl against my skin.
“Hi,” I whisper.
The word breaks.
Charlie bends over us.
His hand hovers above the baby.
He looks afraid to touch him.
“You can,” I say.
Charlie’s eyes meet mine.
“Are you sure?”
“He’s yours.”
That finishes whatever control he has left.
He sobs once.
Then his fingertips brush our son’s back.
The touch is so gentle it barely moves the blanket.
“Hi,” Charlie whispers.
Our son shifts.
His tiny face turns toward the sound.
Charlie laughs through tears.
“He knows me.”
“He’s known your voice for months.”
“He knows me.”
“Yes.”
Charlie presses a trembling kiss to my temple.
“You did it.”
I close my eyes.
“We did.”
“No. You did this.”
“You helped.”
“I held your hand.”
“You stayed.”
He goes quiet.
I open my eyes.
His expression changes.
Softens.
Understands.
He stayed.
It was the one thing I needed most.
The nurse works around us, checking the baby while keeping him against my chest.
Measurements.
Then she takes him briefly to weigh him.
A tiny hat placed over dark hair.
Charlie watches every movement with intense concentration, as if he’s preparing for an exam.
“Is he okay?” he asks.
“He’s perfect,” the nurse says.
Charlie looks offended.
“I know he’s perfect. I mean medically.”
The nurse smiles. “He’s healthy.”
The tension leaves Charlie’s shoulders.
I look down at our son again.
Healthy.
Here.
Ours.
I spent months imagining this moment.
None of those imagined versions came close.
I thought there would be a feeling of completion.
A clear before and after.
Instead, I feel opened.
As though my heart has expanded beyond the limits of my body.
There is no room for caution in this moment.
No room for doubt.
Only love.
Raw and immediate.
The door opens after the medical team finishes.
Liam enters first despite the nurse’s attempt to slow him down.
He stops three feet from the bed.
His hands fly to his mouth.
Behind him, Chase places a steadying hand against his back.
Jordan stands in the doorway.
He doesn’t move.
Liam’s eyes fill. “Oh.”
The sound is barely a breath.
Charlie laughs.
“That’s what you said earlier.”
Liam ignores him.
His gaze remains on the baby.
“My grandson.”
“Your first grandson,” Chase says.
Liam looks back at him.
“Exactly.”
“You’ve mentioned it.”
“It remains important.”
He approaches the bed slowly.
For once, he doesn’t reach out immediately.
He looks at me first.
“How are you?”
The question surprises me.
“Tired.”
“Do you need anything?”
“No.”
“Water? Food? Another pillow?”
“I’m okay.”
His gaze shifts to the baby.
“Can I?”
I adjust the blanket enough for him to see our son’s face.
Liam’s breath catches.
He touches one finger to the baby’s hand.
Tiny fingers close around it.
Liam begins crying.
Charlie points.
“See? I’m not the only one.”
“No one said you were,” I tell him.
“You looked judgmental.”
“I was in labor.”
“You were very judgmental during labor.”
Liam laughs through his tears.
“He’s beautiful.”
“He is,” Charlie says.
Pride fills every syllable.
Jordan still hasn’t moved from the doorway.
I look at him.
“Jordan.”
His eyes lift to mine.
There’s so much emotion in his face that my chest tightens.
He looks younger.
Not like the adult who insists he can handle everything.
Like the boy who used to crawl into my bed during thunderstorms and pretend he was only there because I might be scared.
“Come here,” I say.
He steps into the room.
Slowly.
His gaze stays on the baby.
Charlie moves aside enough to give him space.
Jordan stops beside the bed.
“That’s him?”
Charlie laughs softly.
“That’s him.”
Jordan looks down.
Our son makes a small sound.
His face turns toward my chest.
Jordan’s lips part.
“He’s really small.”
“I’m told that’s normal,” I say.
“Was I that small?”
“You were smaller.”
His eyes widen. “No, I wasn’t.”
“You were.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I have pictures.”
“We should burn those.”
“Never.”
Jordan leans closer.
His expression softens.
“Hi.”
The baby doesn’t respond.
Jordan glances at us.
“What do I say?”
“Anything,” Charlie says.
“That’s not helpful.”
“Tell him who you are.”
Jordan looks down again.
“I’m Jordan.”
He pauses.
“Your brother.”
His voice catches on the last word.
He looks away quickly.
I pretend not to notice.
Charlie does the same.
Jordan clears his throat.
“I’m your older brother,” he continues. “A lot older, apparently.”
“You sound thrilled,” I say.
“I am.”
He looks at me.
“I am.”
I believe him.
The nurse returns and asks whether we have chosen a name.
Charlie and I look at each other.
We have known for weeks.
We did not tell anyone.
Mostly because Liam would have embroidered it onto fourteen blankets before the birth.
Charlie places his hand over mine where it rests on our son’s back.
“Yes,” he says.
Everyone waits.
I look down at the baby.
His tiny mouth opens in a yawn.
The name feels right.
It has felt right since the first time Charlie said it aloud in the nursery.
“Elliot James,” I say.
Liam repeats it softly. “Elliot.”
Charlie smiles. “Elliot James.”
Jordan looks at us. “James?”
Charlie glances toward Chase.
Dad’s expression changes.
Only slightly.
His eyes shine.
“After him,” Charlie says.
Chase looks down. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“We wanted to,” I say.
He nods once.
Emotion moves through his face before he controls it.
Liam touches his arm.
“Elliot James,” Jordan says.
The baby shifts again.
Jordan smiles.
“That’s a good name.”
“It better be,” Charlie says. “It took us three weeks.”
“It took you three weeks,” I correct. “I chose it on day two.”
“You rejected all my ideas.”
“You suggested Thor.”
“It’s strong.”
“You suggested Ocean.”
“My scent smells like the ocean.”
“That does not make Ocean a reasonable name.”
“You liked Storm.”
“I said it was less terrible.”
Jordan laughs.
The sound fills the room.
Elliot startles.
His face tightens.
Then he begins to cry.
Everyone freezes.
Charlie looks panicked.
“What do we do?”
I stare at him.
“You’ve read twelve books.”
“None of them covered this exact cry.”
“He’s hungry,” the nurse says.
Charlie nods quickly.
“Right. Of course.”
Liam reaches for the diaper bag.
“I brought bottles.”
“He’s feeding with Cade,” the nurse says.
Liam stops.
“I knew that.”
“Mom,” Charlie says.
“I was checking.”
Chase gently pulls him toward the chairs.
“Sit.”
“I don’t need to sit.”
“You’re hovering.”
“This is my first grandson.”
The entire room says, “We know.”
Liam looks offended.
Then laughs.
The noise settles.
One by one, everyone leaves to give us privacy.
Jordan is the last.
At the doorway, he looks back at Elliot.
Then at me.
“You okay?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
He studies me.
“I’m happy for you.”
The words are simple.
They mean everything.
“I love you,” I say.
Jordan’s expression softens.
“Love you too.”
Then he leaves.
The room becomes quiet.
Charlie sits beside me.
Elliot feeds, one small hand pressed against my skin.
Charlie watches him.
His eyes are still red.
“You’re crying again,” I say.
“No.”
“There are tears on your face.”
“Leftovers.”
“From twenty minutes ago?”
“I’m emotional.”
“I noticed.”
He leans closer.
His head rests against mine.
For a while, neither of us speaks.
There is nothing to say that could improve the moment.
Our son breathes softly.
His hand opens and closes.
Charlie traces one finger over the edge of his blanket.
“I love him,” he whispers.
“I know.”
“It’s terrifying.”
“I know.”
“What if I do something wrong?”
“You will.”
He lifts his head.
“That was fast.”
“You’ll make mistakes. So will I.”
He watches me.
The fear in his face is real.
I understand it.
Love creates new ways to be afraid.
But it also creates new reasons to be brave.
“We’ll figure it out,” I say.
“Together?”
The question is quiet.
I look at him.
At the man who held my hand while I threatened him, cried against him, and admitted I couldn’t keep going.
At the man who stayed.
“Together.”
Charlie presses a kiss to my forehead.
Then he looks down at Elliot again.
Our son has fallen asleep.
His face is peaceful now.
The anger of his entrance forgotten.
Charlie carefully slips one hand beneath him.
“Can I hold him?”
I nod.
The nurse helps transfer Elliot into Charlie’s arms.
Charlie becomes completely still.
His shoulders lock.
His hands support the baby exactly as he was taught.
“Relax,” I say.
“I am relaxed.”
“You look like you’re holding an explosive.”
“He’s fragile.”
“He’s sturdy enough to survive birth.”
“That doesn’t feel relevant.”
Elliot shifts against his chest.
Charlie’s scent changes.
Rain and ocean air soften.
Warmth moves through the storm.
Elliot settles instantly.
Charlie stares down at him.
His face transforms.
Wonder.
Love.
Recognition.
As if he’s found something he didn’t know he had been searching for.
“Hi, Elliot,” he whispers. “I’m your dad.”
My throat tightens.
Charlie smiles through fresh tears.
“I’m probably going to mess up sometimes.”
“Excellent opening,” I murmur.
He ignores me.
“But I’m going to be here. For all of it.”
Elliot sleeps on.
Charlie brushes one knuckle against his cheek.
“I promise.”
I close my eyes.
The room is quiet except for the soft sound of Charlie speaking to our son.
He tells him about the nursery.
About the rocking chair Chase restored.
About the family waiting to love him.
About Jordan, who will pretend not to spoil him and fail immediately.
About Liam, who has already purchased too many blankets.
He tells Elliot everything.
And I listen.
Charlie looks down at our son as though he has been waiting his entire life to meet him.
Perhaps some part of him has.