WE ARE US

by Leigh, Tara

  Gavin and I learned how to become parents together. He usually handled the sleepless nights and diaper blowouts and colicky cries better than I did, soothing both me and Valentina at the same time. We became a family.

  Financially, we are okay, too. As the Stockton’s only grandchild, Valentina has an enormous trust fund, and between Gavin’s FBI salary and mine as a program coordinator for TeenCharter, we are comfortable. Everything else: the Manhattan apartment, international vacation homes, cars, art, furniture, Tucker’s watch collection and all the jewelry he had given me over the years, including my engagement ring and wedding band—was all seized by Uncle Sam.

  I don’t miss any of it. We have a roof over our heads, food in the fridge, and love in our hearts. I found a therapist who has helped me process the trauma I’d experienced as a child and then a teenager, which sent me down a strange, distorted path. And now I’m living a life I didn’t know enough to wish for. Not glamorous, not exciting, not excessive. Not even perfect, but that’s okay too. Days of joy are made even sweeter by moments of sadness. The bright sheen of happiness is occasionally dulled by frustration. And my contentment is a steady, rising tide.

  Looking at Valentina now, at her strawberry blond curls and upturned nose, listening to her breathy, lilting voice—I have everything I could ever want, and the only things that matter.

  “Mommy, I’m ready to go home now,” my daughter says, launching herself into my arms after finishing with the last number.

  “Me too, sweetheart. Let’s go.”

  “Bye, Belly Mama,” she calls out as we begin walking back to our car.

  “Bye, sis.” I say more softly. And, thank you.

  Gavin is waiting for us, holding our son. At three months old, he is still nursing and cannot be away from me for very long, so we tend to operate as a foursome whenever Gavin isn’t working. I have another month left of my maternity leave, and I am soaking up every minute with my family. Jenny has been filling in for me and has done such a great job, I’m considering reducing my hours instead of returning full time.

  My life so far has been completely unpredictable. I’ve known intense joy, and piercing heartbreak. I have no idea what to expect next year or the year after that or any of the years to follow. I can only hope that I spend every day loving the man who holds my heart in his hands and the children we’re raising together.

  “Hey, V,” Gavin says, looking at Valentina through the rearview mirror, “how about we go for a walk in the woods while your little brother takes a nap? I think it’s raspberries season.”

  She takes her thumb out of her mouth just long enough to chortle, “I don’t like raspberries.”

  I laugh, casting a sideways glance at the beautiful man beside me. Even after all this time, just drinking in the sight of his tawny hair, strong jaw, and wide, warm mouth makes my stomach flutter. “That’s exactly what your daddy said, too.”

  * * *

  Five Years Later, Gavin

  “Don’t forget this, Daddy,” Valentina says, tucking the poppy flower she picked from outside into the popsicle stick vase her brother, Declan, made at school.

  “Never,” I assure her, placing it on the breakfast tray the three of us have spent the past hour assembling. Sparing a final glance at the flour-strewn counters and sink full of dishes, I pick up the tray and grin. “Last one to wish Mom a happy birthday is a rotten egg!”

  There is a split second where they both look at me, then each other. And then they’re off, Valentina’s blond ringlets streaming behind her and Declan’s strawberry curls glinting gold in the morning sun as they race out of the kitchen, down the hall, and then scramble up the stairs.

  I’m close enough behind them to see Valentina reach our bedroom door first. She hurls it open, allowing Declan to squeeze in front of her, then they both chorus loudly, “Happy Birthday, Mommy!”

  Poppy obviously heard the stampede. She is propped against the middle of the headboard, the covers tucked around her swollen belly and a wide, beaming smile stretched across her beautiful face. “Has it really been another year already? I asked time to slow down when I blew out last year’s birthday candles.” She holds out her arms and Valentina and Declan climb in beside her.

  Declan tilts his head to the side. “Your birthday wish didn’t come true?”

  Her eyes flick to mine before returning to our son and then our daughter. “I’m just being silly, sweetheart. All of my wishes have come true.” Her voice cracks a little and my own throat tightens in response.

  We have come so far, Poppy and I, only to arrive back where we started. I hated every minute of the time we were apart, all those lost years. And yet, this moment wouldn’t be possible without them. In spite of everything, we are so damn lucky.

  I am so damn lucky.

  Setting the breakfast tray over Poppy’s lap, Valentina points proudly at the flower. “Look, I picked a poppy just for you.”

  “And I stirred the pancakes,” Declan says, then adds, “Daddy let me try flipping them, too. But I missed.”

  “You were really close this time,” his sister kindly points out. “Right, Daddy?”

  “Right. I bet next time you’ll get it in the pan.”

  Declan stretches a hand over Poppy’s belly. “Do you think the babies will like pancakes, Mommy?”

  “I’m sure they will,” Poppy says. “As soon as they get a few teeth.”

  “Drink this, Mommy.” Valentina picks up the glass of orange juice and lifts it toward Poppy. “Make them wake up.”

  Poppy meets my eyes as she sips the juice. Waking up the babies has become a morning ritual. After what happened with her first pregnancy, she is vigilant about tracking their movements. But she is further along now than she was before. At just over thirty weeks, the chance of her delivering healthy twins is high, and getting higher every day.

  Twins.

  I still can’t believe it. We started trying to expand our family when Declan was three. After a year, when Declan’s kindergarten registration forms arrived in the mail, Poppy made an appointment with a specialist who suggested taking fertility drugs to increase our chances. They came with an increased chance of twins, too.

  I wasn’t sure we should. Raising two healthy children with the love of my life, every day is a gift. I worried we were tempting fate. Asking too much.

  But Poppy has so damn much love to give. “Let’s do it,” she’d said. “The worst that can happen is nothing.”

  Months later, I’ve realized she was bluffing. So many things can go wrong. We can lose the babies. I can lose the three of them.

  I love numbers. Complicated algorithms. Quadratic equations. Statistics and probabilities. But even I cannot compute the array of risk factors and potential outcomes. It’s mind-boggling. And terrifying.

  Thankfully, Poppy’s pregnancy, though considered high-risk given her history, has gone smoothly.

  Valentina and Declan each have a hand pressed to Poppy’s belly, their faces pinched in concentration as they anxiously wait for their siblings to appease them. Seconds tick by and Poppy’s expression shifts from amused to worried. I reach beneath the covers to squeeze one of her feet. “Give them a few m—”

  “I got kicked!” Declan announces proudly.

  “Me, too,” Valentina says.

  But I continue to watch Poppy carefully, knowing she won’t breathe easy until she’s sure she feels movement from both twins. It’s only when she puts down the juice and whispers to me, “we’re good” that I exhale the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.

  Poppy tucks into her breakfast, feeding bites from the mountain of pancakes on her plate, doused with butter and syrup and whipped cream, to Declan and Valentina and me for every one she takes herself.

  Fuck, I’m happy.

  Just sitting here on this bed, in this room, drinking in the sight of my family, drowning in the sound of their laughter.

  Sometimes it hits me like this, hard. A punch in the gut that leaves me feeling c
ompletely hollowed out and yet bursting with all kinds of… things that don’t have shape or weight to them, but are still so damn heavy.

  It shouldn’t surprise me though. Poppy has always done this to me. Made me feel. Made me want. Made me need.

  The day I met her in the woods divided my life into two parts. Before Poppy and After Poppy.

  Before Poppy, life sucked. After Poppy, aside from a few altercations with my foster parent’s douchebag son, life was good. Really good. And every second spent with Poppy was fucking awesome.

  Until the day my mom showed up. She was a mess, like she always was after one of my father’s rages. But she’d left him, and I was all she had. If I didn’t go with her, I knew she’d lose her resolve and slink back to him.

  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 running.

  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 Jenny getting here?” Jenny and Poppy have stayed close over the years, and now that Poppy is working mostly from home, Jenny often comes to visit. Today, she said she would watch the kids while I get Poppy out of the house for a bit of pampering and some time just for us.

  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 “Jenny’s here!”

  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.

  Jenny takes one look at my face as I help Poppy down the stairs and instantly ushers the kids back into the kitchen with a clap of her hands. “How about we clean up the mess from breakfast and make your mom a birthday cake?”

  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 cannot feel what she is feeling. The best thing I can do right now is get her to the hospital quickly. My foot presses harder on the gas pedal, willing the miles to go by faster. Finally, I pull off the exit ramp, zigzag through a few side streets, and screech to a halt in front of the emergency room doors.

  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?”

  “Sure is,” the doctor announces. “We’re going to have to start prepping you for a cesarean though since your babies are getting a little impatient. You two ready to become a family?”

  Family.

  I hold Poppy’s face in my hands, the love I feel for her an endless well surging through my veins, pounding within my heart. “You’ve been my family since the very first day we met in the woods. You held up a deck of cards and told me you usually play Solitaire, remember?”

  Poppy nods her head shakily. “I remember. I haven’t had to play alone for a long, long time.”

  “I’ll always be your partner. You and me.”

  “We are us,” she whispers.

  “Before kids and after. Before our vows and after. You are my everything.”

  WE ARE US is… a lot. A lot of emotion, a lot of story, and a lot of my heart and soul. If you’d like to know just how this story came to be, and maybe see a little further into Poppy’s state of mind after that night, please keep reading.

  A letter from me to you

  The question I am most often asked about being an author is: Where do you find your inspiration? My answer is usually: everywhere. Movies and TV. Overheard conversations. The news. A story shared by a friend.