That gets me a real laugh. "Tell me you have a video of that."
"It’s out there somewhere. I was sixteen and thought 'I Want It That Way' would win her over."
"Did it work?"
"Not even a little. She recorded it on her phone and showed it to all her friends."
Wren's smile widens, but then her face changes, her eyes going wide. "What's happening? I feel... tugging?"
"Almost there," Reed calls, his voice tight.
Then a pause. The longest pause of my life.
I’m holding my breath and I think Wren is, too.
And then there’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard in my life.
A cry.
It’s high-pitched, indignant, and strong.
"He's here," Reed announces. "Summit William James, born at three forty-two p.m."
The world stops. Just... stops.
Over the barrier, Reed holds up a squirming, bloody, perfect little human. My son.
"Holy shit," I breathe.
"Is he okay?" Wren demands, her voice cracking. "Why isn't he crying more?"
As if on cue, Summit lets out a wail that could wake the dead.
"Happy now?" Reed laughs, passing our son to a waiting nurse. "He's perfect. All fingers and toes accounted for."
I can't take my eyes off him as they clean him up, wrap him in a blanket, and place a tiny hat on his head. My brain can't process that this is real. That he's real.
"Kasen." Wren tugs on my hand. "Is he really okay?"
"He's beautiful," I tell her, my voice rough with an emotion I can't even name. "Perfect. Pink and pissed off and... ours."
The nurse brings him over, settling him gently on Wren's chest in the small space above the surgical barrier. She immediately brings her free hand up to touch his cheek, her fingers trembling.
"Hi," she whispers. "Hi, Summit. I'm your mom."
The way she looks at him—like he's the answer to a question she didn't know she was asking—breaks something open inside of me. I lean down, pressing my forehead to hers, my hand covering her much smaller one on our son's back.
"Thank you," I murmur against her temple.
She looks up at me, eyes shining. "For what?"
"For him. For Vegas. For everything."
"Don't make me cry while I'm being stitched back together," she warns, but a tear slips down her cheek anyway.
I laugh, pressing a kiss to her forehead, then lean down to do the same to Summit's head. He smells like nothing I've ever encountered before—new and clean and somehow right.
"Alright, Dad," a nurse says, appearing at my elbow. "We need to take him for a few minutes while we finish up with Mom. Why don't you come with us?"
