Trillion - Winter Renshaw Page 0,55

as if he knows it’s what I want right now.

Someday I’ll tell Trey everything.

But that day is not today.

I’m enjoying myself too much to ruin it.

Thirty-Seven

Sophie

Past

“We need to get you up and moving.” A nurse in yellow scrubs bursts into my hospital recovery suite like a ray of freaking sunshine, beaming so bright the apples of her cheeks are as red as cherries. “The sooner you start getting around, the easier your recovery will be.”

She positions a walker by the front door and comes around the side of my bed.

“Mom, you’re welcome to help me,” she says to my mother. “We have handrails along the hallways, but we definitely don’t want Sophie on her own. Need someone there just in case.”

My mom and I exchange looks, both of us knowing it should be Nolan helping me.

The nurse offers a bent arm, and I hook my hand in the crook, slowly swinging my legs off the side of the bed until my socked feet meet the hard floor.

My C-section incision burns as yesterday’s morphine works its way out of my system, and my legs ache from immobility.

Baby Girl Ames was born at 12:02 pm yesterday. Eight pounds, twelve ounces. Twenty inches long. Full head of dark hair like her father. Nolan stayed by my side during the surgery, brushing my hair and offering me looks of assurance since all I could see was a blue sheet and all I could hear were the beeps of the machines that registered our heartbeats.

I’ll never forget the doctor declaring, “It’s a girl!” and the nurses cheering.

I’ll also never forget that the second she was out, Nolan flew to the nurses’ side as they weighed and measured and tested her. When they were done, one of them showed me a pink face swaddled tight in a white hospital blanket before placing her back in the clear bassinet and rolling her out of the OR.

Nolan went with her …

I’d never seen such light in his eyes, and as the doctor sewed me up, I thought maybe … just maybe … he’d had a change of heart about all of this.

“Come on, Sophie. You can do this.” Mom takes my other arm and together, we stand. I’m unsteady at first. Then the nurse positions the walker and IV stand and offers an encouraging nod. I grip the bar. Mom moves the IV, hand on my lower back.

“You’re doing great,” the nurse tells us. “I’ll let you two roam a bit and I’ll be back to check on you shortly.”

With stunted, cautious steps, I make my way to the hall. A sign outside the door points left for the nursery.

I want to see her … I want to see her one last time before the social worker comes in and I sign my life away.

“Have you heard from Nolan?” I ask.

They had me sign the birth certificate yesterday, pressing my fingertips into black ink and placing them in the boxes next to my daughter’s inky footprints. The spot for Nolan’s signature was blank, which I thought was funny since I was under the impression he hadn’t left the baby’s side since she breathed her first breath.

“I tried to call him,” Mom says. “But he didn’t answer.”

She doesn’t disguise the disgust in her voice.

Up ahead, a row of glass windows paints a view of the nursery. Babies lined up. Some sleeping. Some squirming. Some crying. Some sucking rubber pacifiers and staring blankly above. All of them swaddled. Tiny. Innocent. A man and woman in regular clothes stand beside a bassinet in the corner, talking to a nurse in head-to-toe pink with a stethoscope around her neck.

The closer I get, the more I recognize the man … the broad shoulders, thick hair the color of coffee, the twinkle in his gaze when he grins. He places his arm around the lanky, raven-haired woman, whose face I can’t see. And she leans against him, resting her head on his shoulder. A second later, he presses a kiss against her forehead and pulls her tight into his arms.

This must be the adoptive mother …

… and clearly she’s more than a “friend.”

I suck in a breath and pray my mom doesn’t notice—but she does.

“Don’t make a scene, Mom. Please,” I say.

And she doesn’t. Hand steady on my lower back, she keeps her gaze trained forward. “Let’s head the other way. I heard the view is better than that end of the hall.”

My lips quaver with each step.

Two thick tears slide down my cheeks.

“I