Headlights flared at the far end of the lot. I squinted—just a minivan, slowing for a spot. Not cops or hitters or even a PI, just a dad with a kid in a car seat. My pulse hammered anyway, the old muscle memory never letting up.
The sky was bruised dusk by the time I pulled onto the main road. Up ahead, the city spread out—flat, endless, blotched with lights that made everything feel more exposed. Jade watched the street, not me, tapping the photo against her lip like she was trying to bite through the paper.
"How's our son?" I asked.
She blinked, the question catching her off guard. "He's alive," she said. "Wiggly. All there. It looks…" She trailed off, voice warbling. "They gave me a picture. He has—" She stopped. "He’s perfect and beautiful.”
I nodded, slow. "You did good, Jade."
Something finally broke loose inside her. She laughed, all nerves and teeth. "Yeah. Gold star for getting knocked up in the middle of a mob war."
I grinned, let her have the line. "Could have been worse," I said. "Could have been New Jersey."
"Maybe we should go there next. Really set the bar low."
The tension in the car eased, just a hair. We got out of the garage in one piece, made it to the hotel Marco had booked under a name so fake I almost forgot it. I helped him up the stairs, half-carried him down the hall. Jade opened the door, turned on the lights, and collapsed on the bed like she'd been sprinting for days.
I set Marco up with water and painkillers, then drifted into the bathroom, hands braced on the sink. My jaw was stubble-burned and tight, neck sore from looking over my shoulder every five seconds. I splashed cold water, rubbed it in until I felt the sting.
In the mirror, I looked like hell. Eyes sunken, skin gray under the florescent light, a faint quiver at the corner of my mouth. I sucked a breath and remembered what Jade had said—how she could tell when he was lying now. I wished she couldn’t. I wished I could still protect her with bullshit, with bluster, the way Dad always did. But she was too smart, and she loved me anyway—I thought so, anyway—and that was its own kind of torture.
I ran the shower on hot, stripped to the waist, let the water bead on my back. Didn’t go in, just stood at the edge and watched the steam billow up. Maybe Marco was right—maybe Jade was all I had left of who I was. Maybe that was enough.
When I came out, Marco was passed out on the bed, boot still on one foot, hand draped over his gut. Jade was next to him, knees tucked up, arms wrapped around a pillow. The ultrasound photo was on the side table, tilted toward the lamp like a keepsake. Like a promise.
I crossed to the bed, sat on the edge. Reached out, brushed the hair from Jade’s face. She didn’t wake, but she shifted, a furrow in her brow even in sleep.
I pulled the blanket over her shoulder, then climbed in beside her. For a little while, I just breathed, counting her inhale and exhale, timing them to my own. Each beat stretched the moment, made it longer. Wrapped it up and froze it, like I could keep them safe just by holding still.
Within seconds the room smelled like hospital air, bleach and exhaustion. I didn’t move, listening for every tick of the pipes, every footstep in the hall. That old, idiot hope tried to dig itself out—maybe this was it. Maybe we could keep drifting, city after city, until someone forgot to chase us.
Maybe, but not tonight. I curled on my side, watching Jade’s breathing settle into its own rhythm. She looked so small. I folded closer, nuzzled my face behind her ear. Stupid, soft move, but it felt right, and she mumbled something, shifting her back to press into my stomach, and I let my arm settle over her belly. The pillow of her hips, the curve of her thigh under my palm, the way she went pliant—yeah, I could memorize that. Easy.
I didn’t mean to sleep. But the world faded and blinked, and all at once it was morning—gray Toronto sun leaking around blackout curtains, Marco snoring again, and Jade already awake beside him.
She was sitting up with the blanket bunched around her shoulders, staring at the printout from the ultrasound. I watched her for at least a minute, memorizing the way she curled her fingers around the edge, the way she touched her thumb to the blur of our kid’s silhouette like it was going to burn her.
“Hey,” I said, voice shredded with sleep.
She didn’t look up. “Hey.”
I rolled upright, blinking the night off. “You hungry?”
“I’m always hungry.” She said it flat. “I want waffles. And real fruit. And maybe a gallon of orange juice.”
I grinned, stretched. “You want me to go get it, or can you brave the wilds of room service?”
“I’ll go.” She yanked a hoodie over her pajama top. “Maybe Marco wants something. Maybe you want something.”
“Adorable, but I got this.”
I grunted, amused at her stubbornness, but I liked the way she never asked permission. She didn’t wait for me to answer, just padded into the little closet of a bathroom, shutting the door soft.
I watched the crack of light under the door for a while. Then I looked at the printout she’d left behind, leaned over, and turned it so the kid was facing me.
It looked like nothing. A ghost with stubby arms, a head too big for its body. I tried to imagine what it would be like to hold it, to see it with my own eyes. I wondered if it would be like seeingJade for the first time, all that impossible heat and certainty raging through my chest. Maybe I’d know, the way my old man always knew when to duck a punch or double a bet. Maybe it would be obvious.
I looked at the hospital bands on the table—the ones we’d both been wearing. Stupid, temporary names, but I’d kept them. Someone, sometime, would want proof we were there. That we’d tried to live a normal day.
