Breathe With Me By Becka Mack - 30

E VERY RESPECTABLE C ANADIAN KNOWS two things about the May Two-Four long weekend. First, rarely does it ever actually land on May 24th, and second, it always. Fucking. Rains.

That’s why this year’s long weekend kicks off on only the 17th of May, and the weather—

“You don’t even like the sun,” Rosie reminds me. “You always say the sun is only here to—”

“Burn us and age us, yes, and I stand by that. But, number one, Abel’s so excited to see his first fireworks, he’s been preparing by livestreaming the nightly fireworks at Disney World for the last four days, and he’s really nailing all his ooh s and aah s. Number two—and jot this one down, ’cause it’s real important—ensuring that I get pinned to the wall and/or tied spread-eagle on the mattress and fucked so hard I forget my own name depends entirely on Emmett seeing me in the bathing suit I bought two days ago.”

“You act as if Emmett wouldn’t fuck you while you were wearing a paper bag,” Lennon murmurs from the driver’s seat as we head home from our overnight spa getaway.

“So true, Lennon. Yes, he thinks I’m gorgeous always, and he would always, always, always fuck me. Thank you for pointing that out.” I reach forward to squeeze her shoulder, smiling at her in the rearview mirror. “But I don’t just want to be fucked , I want to be destroyed. Annihilated. I want to forget how to walk, how to speak, and honestly? I want to call him Daddy and see how he reacts.”

“I do that by acting really bratty and pretending I don’t need Garrett, just my toys and my own fingers.” Jennie traces the shape of her lips, a far-off look in her eyes. “I really do enjoy the moment just before he flips his switch, though, when he stands there with his jaw dangling, unable to speak full sentences. It’s like watching him short-circuit in real time.”

“Carter loves when I call him Daddy,” Olivia murmurs.

“ Ew .” Jennie spins in her seat, trying to swat at Olivia. “Can you not ?”

“Sorry,” Olivia says, but her grin says there ain’t an ounce of remorse behind those pretty brown eyes.

Rosie looks away, cheeks flushed pink. I cock a brow, poking her. “Spill it, sister. Adam’s got a daddy kink, doesn’t he?”

“No,” she lies, her entire face and the tips of her ears now a furious shade of red as she shakes her head. “Okay, well, maybe. Yes. Yes, he has a daddy kink. But it’s not like a weird… it’s just, he loves being a dad so much, and he’s so proud of himself, and there is absolutely nothing in this world more attractive to me than watching him be such an amazing dad, and so one night, I maybe-kinda-sorta said ‘ You’re such a good daddy ’ when he came into the bedroom after getting the kids down, and I maybe-kinda-sorta said it in a low voice, and I maybe-kinda-sorta had just stepped out of the shower and dropped my towel right after I said it, and he definitely short-circuited for a solid ten seconds before pushing me against the wall and… well…” She clears her throat, scratching her nose. “That might have been the night Iris was conceived.”

The car explodes with cheers as Rosie buries her flaming face, and I wind an arm around her, hugging her to my side. “That’s our fucking girl!”

“I was so demure before you guys,” she rumbles when I release her.

Olivia snorts a laugh. “Please.”

“You were bored out of your mind and desperate for the spice we brought to your life,” Jennie says.

“ I was so demure ,” I mimic. “Says the girl who fucked her way through seven condoms the first night she slept with Adam.”

Lennon gasps, slamming her hand against the steering wheel. “ Seven? Rosie! How could you even… I mean, I heard about the Christmas dicksicles incident two years ago. I’ve seen the pictures of the imprints. I know Adam’s packing some serious heat. How could you even stand the next day?”

It shouldn’t be possible, but Rosie’s face burns an even deeper shade of red. “That’s neither here nor… Let’s not… It’s… He’s…” She sighs, hanging her head. “Massive. I couldn’t walk properly for days.”

I nod solemnly, patting her hand. “Dickmatized. No need to be embarrassed. We’ve all been there. That’s all I want tonight.”

“You might be in luck,” Jennie says, eyes out the window as we round Cypress Mountain, heading for North Vancouver. “Looks like the clouds are clearing out this way.”

I stick my head between the front seats, gasping as I point out the windshield. “Look! Sunshine! ” Settling back in my seat with a satisfied smile and a sigh of relief, I murmur, “I’m ready for you, Pussy Pounder Five Thousand.”

“I just have this sick feeling in my stomach,” Olivia says a half hour later as Lennon turns into the neighborhood, heading toward Adam and Rosie’s street. “Like, it’s not that I don’t trust them to keep the kids alive. They’re so capable, I know that. Plus, we video-called with them this morning. I just… don’t trust them to keep themselves alive, you know? They’re always getting up to something. Every time they’re left to their own devices, I’m like, what’s it gonna be this time, ya know?” She laughs, a nervous, forced sound as she shifts in her seat, rubbing her forehead.

Rosie reaches across me to pat Olivia’s knees. “I think—and I say this gently—that maybe you’re overthinking. We have to remind ourselves that the boys are mature, fully grown—”

“What. The. Fuuuck. ”

“Oh, Jesus fuck.”

“Are those… Halloween costumes?”

“Well, they’re certainly not regulation length.”

“Who thought any of them were going to be able to get their asses all the way inside those shorts?”

“Not a shot in hell, not for any of them.”

“Rosie.” Olivia crosses her arms over her chest, fingers tapping, brows raised. “I’m waiting.”

Rosie blinks. Once, then twice. Three times, then four, seemingly unable to tear her gaze away from the… the… whatever the fuck is going on in her driveway. Finally, she drops her head. “I’m sorry, Ollie. My faith was a touch misplaced.”

Jennie offers her an empathetic smile from the front seat. “Your husband is the most grown up; your misplaced faith makes sense.”

Lennon parks at the end of the long driveway, and we step out of the car, observing the scene before us. Hunter, Brodie, and Iris are on their tummies on a blanket spread out on the front lawn, a collection of pillows encircling them, even though all any of them can do is roll front to back, and that’s a five-minute endeavor, at least.

Abel, Connor, Ireland, and Lily are each behind the wheel of ride-on BMWs, each one a different color, shiny and new.

And the boys… fuck, the boys.

Carter comes roaring up the side of the driveway in a ride-on police SUV, sirens blaring, lights flashing, sunglasses on, left leg propped up on the door, right knee jammed behind the steering wheel. The car skids to a stop next to Ireland, who leads the kids, which is absolutely no surprise even though she’s the youngest of the bunch.

Carter climbs out of the car, or attempts to, yanking his knee free, tripping over on his way out. He hops on one foot as he regains his balance, glancing back at the car as he says, “Good thing nobody saw that.”

“Jesus Christ,” Olivia mutters.

Turning back to the kids, Carter places his hands on his hips, slowly swaggering over to them. “Well, well, well,” he mutters. “Look what we have here. Do you know how fast you were going, little lady?”

Ireland snickers into her hand, the rest of the kids folding over their steering wheels in fits of giggles.

Carter tears off his sunglasses, gripping the side of her car as he bends over. “Something funny?”

She sticks her finger in his face. “Yo’ face funny!”

“All right, I’ve heard enough.” Carter fiddles with his utility belt—oh, did I forget to mention that he’s clearly taking his role as a police officer very seriously, and is fully decked out in a cop costume?—and brings a walkie-talkie to his mouth. “Come in, puck bunnies. Officer Daddy to puck bunnies, do you read me?”

“Did he just say Officer Daddy?” Lennon whispers.

“He just said Officer Daddy,” Rosie confirms.

“I’m gonna vomit,” Jennie whispers.

Olivia’s gaze falls down his body before slowly coming back up. “I’m so into it. I want to be ashamed to say that, but I’m not.”

“We read you,” Emmett’s voice sounds over the walkie-talkie. “But please don’t ever call yourself Officer Daddy again.”

“Negative, Officer Buzzkill.” Carter grabs his belt loop, hiking up his shorts, and I promise you this: If there’s one thing those shorts do not need, it’s to be hiked up. “Pulled over a couple of no-good criminals going a mile an hour in a residential area. They’re giving me attitude. I’m gonna need some backup over here, ASAP.”

“Affirmative, Captain. We’ll be right there. Hold tight.”

Carter tucks his walkie-talkie away, flicking his brows up at the kids. “You hear that? This little joyride of yours is over. Your days of fun? Numbered.”

Sirens cut through the air, and the kids snap to attention, shrieking with laughter as, one by fucking one, Emmett, Adam, Garrett, and Jaxon roll out from the side of the house, each stuffed in their own police car. They park their rides next to Carter, each struggling exactly the way he did as they climb out, lining up beside him, pulling off their sunglasses, placing their hands on their hips, like this whole thing is a choreographed routine they’ve been practicing for weeks.

“Well, well, well,” Emmett murmurs, swinging a set of handcuffs around his finger, and I am so certain we’ll be using those tonight. “Where are you four heading in such a rush?”

Adam tips his sunglasses down. “Now I know you’re not trying to skip town on us, are you?”

Garrett swipes a finger along the side mirror on Abel’s BMW. “These cars look familiar to you, officers? Like the ones that were, oh, I dunno… stolen from the dealership last night?”

Lily erupts into a fit of giggles, shaking her head. “No! We didn’t!”

“Hear that, officers? Seems we got ourselves a giggler.” Jaxon rounds her car slowly, peeling off his sunglasses, placing the tip in his mouth as he crouches into a squat at her door. “I’m gonna ask you this once and only once, little lady. Where’d you get the car?”

“Oh my fucking God,” Lennon mutters into her hand.

Yeah. Oh my fucking God. The worst part, though? The matching outfits.

But what’s wrong with matching outfits, you ask?

It could be that they’re at least two sizes too small for each of these big men. Or it could be the fact that they look exactly like strippers, seeing as how—

“You couldn’t get full-sized cop costumes, at the very least?”

Every head whips in our direction at Olivia’s voice as we start the hike up the long driveway. The kids scream with excitement, exiting their cars with a grace these men could never possess, flying toward us. I try not to notice the way Abel stops himself, instead taking a seat on the porch steps, head in his hands, like he doesn’t want to see me.

Carter’s eyes brighten. “Ollie girl! You’re home!” His eyes narrow suddenly, like he’s just registered her comment, and he scoffs. “We were gonna, I swear! All they had left was sexy cop!”

“Please. You expect me to buy that? You’re always looking for an opportunity to show off your thighs!”

“Oh, here we go. ” He tosses his arms over his head in true Beckett theatrics. “Sorry I was cursed with sexy, luscious thighs, Ollie!”

Adam clears his throat. “It pains me to say this, but it’s, uh, true.”

Carter sniffs, sticking his nose in the air. He turns slightly, just enough to flex the muscles in his bare thighs, not an inch of them covered by his booty shorts. “Thank you.”

Adam rolls his eyes. “About the sexy cop costumes being the only ones left. Not Carter’s luscious thighs.”

Garrett snickers, elbowing Jaxon in the side. “Adam called Carter’s thighs luscious .”

“The girl at the store said they always stock up on sexy cops due to the popularity,” Emmett explains, touching a finger to my chin, dropping his lips to mine as my fingers tangle in the collar of his too-tight shirt. “Her next shipment of regular cop wasn’t coming until August, but—”

“We came up with the idea yesterday,” Jaxon interjects. “And we, as a whole, have been— in the past —accused of being a bit—”

“Ollie says I’m impulsive,” Carter says, hands up in defense. “And, look, I know this looks impulsive, but when you have a brilliant idea, you just have to run with it, you know?”

“Mhmm.” I look at the driveway full of ride-on cars. “And the cars? Did you really need nine of them?”

Carter’s eyes widen, looking back at the cars, then to me. His face twists with outrage. “Did we really—”

Garrett pinches the bridge of his nose. “Now you’re just being ridiculous.”

“Oh, and let me guess.” Jaxon spreads his arms wide. “The kids should get the cars, but we shouldn’t?”

Adam scuffs at the ground with his shoe. “I wanna have fun too.”

Emmett frowns at me. “We’re tending to our inner children.”

“Okay, I’m done.” I wave them off, striding toward Abel, who still isn’t looking at me. “Keep your cars, you bunch of babies.” I stop in front of my little guy, sifting my fingers through his hair. “Hey, stranger.”

He sighs. “Hi.”

“Everything okay?”

Another sigh. “Yeah.” Another, this one extra dramatic, long and loud, shoulders heaving. “I guess.”

I crouch in front of him as the girls move around us, babies in their arms, kids on their heels as they head through the front door. “Do you wanna go inside and talk about it?”

“No,” he says, but goes inside anyway, kicking off his shoes. His eyes come to mine, finally, loaded with sadness, but it’s the trust, the safety swimming in them, that has me smiling despite all of this. “I’m sad, and I think I will like some space right now,” he murmurs, then hangs his head, starting a trek up the staircase. He stops halfway, taking a seat on the step, dropping his chin to his hands, huffing another award-winning sigh. He sits there for all of thirty seconds before he lifts his head and shouts, “ Cara? Wanna come have space with me?”

Swallowing my snicker, I climb the stairs, taking a seat beside him. “Of course, my darling. Do you want quiet space, or would you like to talk about what’s bothering you?”

“I just missed you,” he says softly, palms raised in a shrug. “I was too sad to sleep in my own bed last night.”

“What? You were?”

He nods, bashful. “I cried a lot, and I said, I miss my Cara. Why did she leave me? ”

“Oh, baby.” I take his hands in mine, squeezing gently. “I’m not surprised Emmett failed to mention that. I would have jumped in the car and driven straight back. I’m sorry you went through that last night. I missed you too, so much that I stayed up way, way too late thinking about you.”

“You missed me too? Maybe you could hear me talking to you.”

I tilt my head. “Talking to me?”

“Emmett let me snuggle with him in bed. We looked at pictures of you, because he missed you too. He said sometimes when he’s at hockey and he misses us too much, he looks at pictures of us and says what he wants to say to us.”

I brush his auburn waves from his forehead. “What did you say to me?”

“I said… I said three things.” He holds up four fingers, then second-guesses, counting them out and laying one back down. “I said I miss you, I love you , and can we have ice cream when you get home. ” The look he hits me with is so hopeful, I feel it bloom in my own chest. “Did you hear me?”

I wrap an arm around him, pulling him into my side. It’s overwhelming, the way my heartbeat slows the second I have him in my arms, the sense of peace that spreads through me, settling every thought in my head, like my body was searching for its calm every minute we were apart. “I think I always hear you, Abel.”

“Yeah,” he says on another sigh, but this one is quiet, content. “I think you do.”

I run my fingers through his hair, drifting the pad of my thumb over his cheekbone, guiding his gaze back to mine. He beams up at me, and I know this moment was always meant to exist.

“I love you too, Abel.”

T HE BATHING SUIT TRICK IS working, in case you were wondering. I slipped out of my cover-up slow as molasses while looking Emmett dead in the eye from across the yard, basking in the way he missed his mouth with his drink when his gaze rolled down my body, beer dribbling down his chin. The way he tripped so hard over his words when I asked him to sunscreen my backside that he simply gave up, choosing instead to nod, over and over. The way his hands found my back, quivering at first before settling into a drag so possessive and slow until they found my hips, wrapping around them hard enough to leave fingerprints as he pulled me down to the spot between his thighs, hauling me back against him so I could feel the way his cock hardened against my ass as he drizzled sunscreen over my shoulders, down my spine, all while he whispered a single word in my ear, a promise I still feel a half hour later.

Mine.

So, yeah, the bikini is working. I knew it would. And yet it’s not working nearly as well as Emmett’s tactic.

“I don’t think it’s a tactic, Care,” Jennie tells me from the floatie she’s lounging on.

“Oh, he knows exactly what he’s doing,” I mutter, glaring at him from beneath my sunglasses. He smirks at me as he peels his shirt off, tossing it over his shoulder before he goes back to what he was doing. “Cunning fucker.”

Rosie snorts a laugh. “The daddy kink really is strong in this group.”

“Oh, so you admit it.” I whip my head in her direction, shifting my sunglasses down to give her a pointed look, brows raised. “You have a daddy kink.”

“I—you—ugh.” She splashes water at my face from her spot on the steps, halfway submerged, and when I stick my tongue out at her, she sticks hers out right back.

“Guys,” Olivia whispers, looking down at the three sleeping babies tucked beneath the cabana. “It’s really happening. They’re all sleeping at the same time.” Her eyes light, and she grabs the pitcher of strawberry daiquiri off the table, filling a glass to the brim. “Ohhh, yes. Come to mama, baby.”

“Hey, Ollie girl,” Carter calls from across the yard, hair wet and slapping against his forehead as he tosses his head and hikes one leg up in a lunge. “You like what you see? Does it make you think about having a fourth b—”

“No.” She brings the glass to her lips, and I watch as her throat works as she promptly—and impressively—drains the entire drink in under five seconds. Wiping the slushy red residue off her mouth, she shakes her head. “Not a chance in hell, Carter.”

“Imagine you had no backbone,” I murmur when I’m done cackling at Carter’s dejected expression. I wrap my arms around Olivia’s shoulders as she wades into the pool and over to me, letting me float on her back. “You’d be popping out babies for the next ten years, at least.”

“You shut your filthy mouth,” she mutters, but I feel the way she softens as she turns toward the boys, my chin resting on her shoulder. “Why do they have to make it so hard, though?”

My gaze drifts back to Emmett, and the flutter in my chest returns, just like the one between my legs, as I watch him. Watch the way he fills cups with the lemonade he made with Lily and Abel ten minutes ago. The way he tops each one with one of those loopy straws and a little umbrella, places them carefully on a platter before sweeping across the yard with them held effortlessly above his head. He stops at the mini lounge chair where Ireland is spread out beneath the sun, oversized sunglasses on, and says, “Lemonade, madam?”

Her head tilts just slightly, and I imagine the way her big green eyes move over him before she answers him with only the pop of her mouth. I snicker as he complies, nodding and placing the tip of a straw in her mouth, holding her lemonade for her while she sips it, until she decides she’s done, dismissing him with the simple flick of her wrist. He moves on, distributing a glass to each of the kids, and when he’s done, he turns on the bubble machine as Adam turns up the music, and those four boys scoop up the kids, twirling them through bubbles as they sing at the top of their lungs, and I swear the sound of all those never-ending giggles is the secret to happiness.

This is Emmett’s tactic. The effortless way he loves these tiny humans, makes them feel special and worthy, lives for their laughter. He’s a good uncle, a good foster parent, a good friend.

He’s a good man.

My good man.

And there is nothing in this world more attractive to me than that.

“This is dangerous for my ovaries,” Lennon mutters from behind her phone. She switches to her camera, taking a few photos of the boys and the kids before picking her phone up again. She flashes me the video she just took, and my heart warms all over again as I watch it. “Abe’s face is covered by the bubbles. Good to post?”

I nod as I climb off Olivia’s back, winking at Emmett as I climb the pool steps and his eyes roll down my dripping body. “Thanks, Len.”

She has this theory that it messes with the other team’s heads every time she posts a video of the boys being carefree the day before a big playoff game, instead of locking themselves down like robots. While other teams eat, sleep, and breathe hockey during playoffs, these boys use their off days to unwind, reconnect, and have fun. They always come back fresher and better for it.

“Oh. My. God.”

I look to Lennon as I grab a towel off my chair, her stare frozen on her phone. “What?”

Her eyes flick to mine, widening just slightly as I approach. She flips her phone down, slipping her sunglasses on, which does nothing to hide the deep flush that works its way into her bronzed cheeks. “Nothing.”

“Lennon.”

She keeps staring straight ahead, arms crossed over her chest, one leg slung over the other, feet bouncing.

“Lennon.”

“Oh, fine. Fuck.” She tears her sunglasses off. “How do you do that? How do you say only my name and get me to fold?”

“It’s a talent I’ve spent many, many years perfecting. Also, it’s hard to say no to extremely beautiful people such as myself.”

She chuckles, but it’s replaced with a sad smile. “You’re talented and extremely beautiful, you just said so. Remember that, okay?”

“Always,” I reply easily, but there’s a hitch in my voice reminding me there was a time not so long ago when I couldn’t find a single kind thing to say about myself. Still, I take her phone without hesitation, my intrigue too strong to pause as the rest of the girls climb from the pool, gathering at my side to read the post on a popular trash hockey podcast’s Instagram page. My jaw clenches, shoulders pulling taut as I look at the pictures. One is Emmett and Abel, taken by Lennon after Abel’s first time watching a game in person, his face covered by a dinosaur emoji she’d placed on it before posting. The second picture is me, head down and arms wrapped around myself as I leave the fertility clinic, and the two pictures are separated like the page has been ripped in half. It’s the heading, though, that makes my stomach drop.

Marriage in crisis? Hockey’s golden couple and their last-ditch attempt to save their marriage.

Jennie scoffs, and Rosie grips my elbow.

“Put that shit down,” Olivia demands, but I twist away from her as she tries to grab the phone, gaze moving over the caption below the photo.

Vancouver Vipers’ star left-winger Emmett Brodie, seen here with unnamed foster child, says his marriage with event planner Cara Brodie is hanging on by a thread. A source that used to be close to the family told us in an exclusive interview that things had been tense in the Brodie household long before the couple turned to fertility treatments. “They’ve been trying basically forever to have a baby,” our source said. “It’s become, like, Cara’s entire personality, and she’s already high-maintenance as it is. The entire process—because she can’t have one, so they’re doing fertility treatments—sucked the joy out of Emmett. Anyway, it was so uncomfortable. I had to remove myself from their lives after he basically propositioned me, suggesting I could give him what she couldn’t.” Click the link in our bio to listen to the episode where we go over our exclusive interview with our source and try to answer everyone’s burning question: Are they only fostering as a last-ditch attempt to save their marriage?

“I said…” Olivia seethes, tugging the phone free from my grasp. “Put. That. Shit. Down.”

“I… I…” I don’t know. I don’t know what I want to say. I don’t know what I’m feeling. There’s a rise to my chest and a pit in my stomach that says not good , but there’s the steady beat of my heart too, the way it doesn’t waver but instead keeps doing its job exactly the way it’s supposed to, the way it quietly whispers, It’s okay, you’re okay, we’re okay.

Am I?

“I need a minute” is what I settle on, and I put a hand out, stopping the four of them the second they take a step in my direction. “Alone. I’m fine, I promise. Just a minute to process this… this…”

“Fuckery,” Lennon whispers.

“Fuckery. Just a minute. Please.” I wait for them to nod before I amble through the patio door so I can pace the kitchen in privacy, the cool air a kiss of relief against my hot skin. Still, I fan at my face, battling the wave of self-doubt, the sharp pinch of anger, until finally, I ground myself. Bare feet flat on the cool floor, hands on my hips, eyes closed, and face up as I breathe. And then: “What the fuuuck? Genuinely, what the fuck? Unnamed source, my ass. Natasha, you don’t have a subtle bone in your body,” I mutter about my ex-housekeeper. “And as fucking if Emmett would stray. Unbelievable.”

A throat clears, and my eyes fly open, landing on Carter, halfway buried in the fridge. He closes the door slowly, eyes wide as if he’s been caught, because, well, he has been. He’s got a chocolate Oreo cupcake in one hand, and the smear on his lower lip tells me he’s already had at least one.

“Give me that,” I growl, snatching the cupcake and shoving half of it in my mouth. “No mo’ fo’ you.” I jab him in the chest before I devour the rest of the cupcake. “Dey fo’ afta dinna.”

He grins all too proudly, crossing his arms over his chest. “Well, well, well. Someone’s eating her feelings.”

I roll my eyes, wiping my mouth clean. “I’m not eating my—” I sigh, not interested in continuing this fight, but definitely not because I’m eating my feelings. Instead, I hold my hand out. “Phone?”

He fishes it out of his shorts pocket, unlocking it and handing it over without hesitation like I knew he would. These men have nothing to hide. I open Instagram, rolling my eyes when the app refreshes and the first post on his feed is from a page called @DadSaysJokes.

“They’re hilarious,” he tells me.

“I’m so sure,” I lie.

Navigating to the post I read just minutes ago, I show it to Carter, watching his smile dim and his jaw set as he reads through it.

“This is bullshit, Care.”

“I know it is, really, I do. I’m just—” I sigh, rubbing my temples. “Listen, I’m all for women supporting women. In fact, it’s pretty much my mission. We shouldn’t be tearing each other down. But what in the absolute fuck is going on over here?” I spread my arms wide, making a show of looking around. “Is there something in the goddamn water? Why is there always someone lurking in the shadows, trying to break up happy couples? I didn’t sign up for this goddamn other woman trope bullshit. It’s like someone is writing all our stories and thought Haha you know what would be so fun? Throwing in a woman every once in a while whose main purpose is just to get everyone’s blood boiling and piss us off. And you know what?” I jab Carter’s shoulder, punctuating my next words. “I’m. Fucking. Sick. Of. It.” I throw my arms in the air. “Haven’t we been through enough?”

Carter’s brows jump as he watches my little performance, and the humor returns to his face. “All right,” he says on a sigh, taking me by the elbow. “Come here.” He tows me to the living room, taking a seat on the couch and patting the space beside him. I take it with a huff, arms crossed over my chest, one leg slung over the other, bouncing away.

“In times of deep, deep trouble, I like to ask myself: WWCBD?”

My brow lifts, my leg stilling. “What the actual fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Carter clears his throat, leaning forward to brace his elbows on his knees, hands clasped. With all the seriousness in the world, he murmurs, “What would Carter Beckett do?”

I sigh, so deep, so long, I fear my soul may actually leave my body as I run a hand down my exhausted face. “Oh, dear God.”

Carter nods. “Deep, I know.”

“Philosophical, even.”

His eyes light. “Yes, exactly! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell Ollie, but she—” He pauses, waving himself off. “Never mind. I’ll just have you repeat yourself to her later. The point is—”

“What would you do?”

“No, but also, yes.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. We’re gonna be here a while.

“What I mean is, when shit goes wrong, I ask myself what I’d do, yes, but I ask myself what I’d do if it were my friend going through it. It’s too easy to get caught up in your thoughts and second-guess everything, but when it’s your friend, the decision is—”

“Easy,” I finish for him on a whisper. “The decision is easy when it’s a friend.”

“Exactly. Because we love our friends and want the best for them, but when it’s us?” Carter shakes his head. “We’re harder on ourselves than anyone else. I think, deep down, we wonder if we really deserve the best, the love, the good things.”

I hang my head, wringing my hands in my lap. “I never used to question those things before.”

“But it’s normal to, you realize that? It’s human, and it’s okay. We’re not invincible every day, but if you surround yourself with good friends, the right support system that refuses to let you forget all the best parts of you… you’ll be invincible when you need to be.”

I scrunch my nose, sniffing as I try to ward off the tears stinging my eyeballs. Those poor, magnificent blues have cried enough for one lifetime. “Damn it,” I mutter as one sneaks out. “I hate when you make sense.”

“No one makes more sense than me,” he says far too confidently as he pulls me to my feet and into a hug.

“I didn’t say that.”

“Basically. And by the way, Care? ‘High-maintenance’ is just a label people with too many opinions use to describe women who know their worth and refuse to accept anything less. People like you.” He throws open the patio door. “ Ollie! Cara said I’m philosophical! ”

“Cara, for shit’s sake.” A baby cries, and then another. Olivia throws her arms in the air in one of her signature tantrums, but I see every ounce of humor shining in her eyes as she struts by me, nudging me in the side. “Oh, great! Cara calls Carter philosophical and the babies wake up! I hope you’re happy with yourself, Care!”

It’s nothing more than a silly comment, but it has me wondering… Am I? Am I happy with myself?

I mull it over in my head, that single word that holds so much weight. What does it even mean to be happy with yourself? It used to feel so simple, so obvious, but the more I look back on it, the more I wonder if I’d been confusing happiness with pride. It had always been easy to be proud of myself, proud of the life I’d built, proud of my accomplishments, and when that pride was wiped away, when uncertainty took over, when I was plagued with self-doubt and, in the worst moments, self-hatred, every ounce of happiness slowly vanished too.

But happiness is more than a list of accomplishments to be proud of, isn’t it?

Maybe happiness is having a group of friends whose gazes all connect with mine, a silent check-in that says they’re ready to go to battle for me if I need them to, that they’ll stand by my side today and every day.

Maybe happiness is the laughter that dances around us, the way it forbids the light from vanishing in its entirety, making sure there’s always just enough for me to find my way out. Maybe it’s the way the problems don’t disappear, but ease enough to let me breathe, a reminder that I’m never carrying anything all on my own. Maybe it’s the gentlest of touches, a passing hand on my shoulder. Maybe it’s a loaned sweater when the sun goes down, or a marshmallow toasted over the fire exactly the way I like. Maybe it’s the comfort, the safety that comes from existing in a place where my people know me, see me, where I can be every version of myself—brave, bold, broken—without fear of rejection.

Maybe happiness is the love that surrounds me, the one that seems to amplify, radiating through this small village we’ve created, same as the brilliant way the sun sets in the sky as we gather beneath it, the fireworks that paint it with vivid colors while a small boy climbs into my lap, lays his head over my heart, and tangles his fingers with mine.

Maybe it’s realizing that the accusations, the lies one person tells and the ones I’ve told myself, the war of self-doubt that sometimes wages in my head, none of that noise comes close to the peaceful sigh of a child who’s taken all of his trust and placed it in your hands, or the I love you, firefly that the man who stole my heart presses against my ear.

Maybe it’s realizing that these people, this family, they chose me. But only because, at one point in my life, I chose myself first. Decided I was worth it, that I deserved these kinds of people, this kind of love, and vowed to accept nothing less.

Happiness wasn’t the fall from grace headfirst into a grief so deep, so mind-altering, I thought I’d never return, and it wasn’t the treacherous climb back up. But maybe happiness is the view from the top of the mountain, the gasp of fresh air when I finally open my eyes, because every step I’ve taken, no matter how small or how slow, has led me here. Maybe happiness is understanding I’ll never be the same person I was before, thanking her for everything she did for me, saying goodbye, and welcoming the woman I was always meant to be.

My thoughts stay here for what feels like hours, through the fireworks and long after we’re home, settling in for the night.

“Cara? Why you cwyin’?”

I blink away the tears until the stars outside the window are clear again, like crystals in an endless sea of black, and I look down at the boy in my lap, the one who’s been snuggled up there since the moment we got home and put his pajamas on.

Abel twists in the window seat, cupping my damp cheeks in his hands. As his green eyes search mine, I am acutely aware that I would not be here with him had it not been for the too-many negative tests, the yearning to fill the hole in my heart.

“My heart is feeling a lot of things right now,” I tell him quietly, sniffing as I place my hands over his on my face.

“My heart is funny like that too, sometimes. Sometimes my heart wants to cry for my Catharine, but it’s happy because I have my Cara, and my Emmett.” He places his small hand over my heart and rests his forehead against mine. “It’s okay, though. Hearts are big, so we can feel anything we want to feel.”

And what an odd feeling it is, as his gentle fingers brush my tears away, to feel both the heaviness of the wave of grief that crashes into me headfirst, and the warmth of the love that sifts like the finest sand into every single crack and crevice of a heart that continues to ache but is no longer shattered.

Because maybe happiness is understanding that it can still hurt, that it can burn and bleed, that I can cry, scream, struggle, and still, I can heal. I can love, and I can be loved. Maybe it’s making peace with every broken fragment, every wound that’s turned into a scar, letting them serve not as a reminder of my failures or shortcomings, but that I was stronger than what tried to destroy me. That I survived, even when I was so sure I couldn’t. Maybe it’s understanding that there is so, so much love despite it all. Love to give, to receive, to build. Love that doesn’t require you to be fully healed, to be whole, in order to be worthy of it.

And so the truth?

The truth is I am happy. With myself, with this life.

But more than that? I’m full of love and gratitude for the life I’ve lived, and the one I haven’t lived yet, and the body, the heart that sees me through all of it.

After all, it’s the fissures in my heart that made space for the light to shine through.