Western Waves (Compass 3)

We walked up to the cashier, a young teenager. She looked at the basket of tests as she blew bubbles with her chewing gum, and she shook her head. “Congratulations,” she said, swiping the boxes. “Or my condolences if it’s negative,” she said. “Or my condolences if it’s positive, too. I don’t know. Whatever.”

We didn’t reply to her commentary. Damian simply paid for the tests, and we went on our way. He didn’t say much on the ride home. Correction: he didn’t say anything. He simply drove, then opened the door for me when we arrived home, and he walked inside with me beside him.

“Should I take one now?” I asked.

“Do you want to?”

“I don’t know. I guess. Maybe? Christ. I don’t know why I’m so nervous.”

“You’ll be fine. Take two now, and then you can take some later if you need to.” He held two of the random tests out toward me, and I took a deep breath as I grabbed them. When I turned to head to the bathroom, he placed a hand against my forearm. “Stella.”

“Yes?”

“Whatever happens, whatever the outcome, I’m all in.”

I parted my lips to reply, but no words came out. Somehow, his words were more than enough to give me the courage I was searching for. I unwrapped two tests, peed on the sticks, set them against the counter, then called Damian into the bathroom.

I set a timer. We sat on the bathroom floor with both of our legs bent up. His arm was looped with mine. For ten minutes, we sat still and didn’t speak a word. Every now and then, his hand would rub gently against my forearm, giving me bursts of comfort.

The timer dinged. Damian looked at me.

“Can you check? I’m too nervous,” I muttered, feeling sick to my stomach.

He stood, looked down at the two tests, and held them up in the air. His mouth parted, and he spoke, “Baby.”

“Baby?” I scrambled to my feet. I took the tests from his hand and felt as if my heart was seconds away from flying out of my chest. “Baby.”

“Yes.”

I looked at Damian, wondering what his thoughts were, wondering if he was okay, wondering if this was all right. “Happy or scared?” I softly asked.

He placed the tests down on the counter, laced our fingers, and moved in closer. His forehead rested against mine as I closed my eyes. “Happy.” I felt tears against my cheeks, but they weren’t mine. Damian’s emotions were falling from his eyes as he held me closer. “So happy.”

As our eyes locked, I saw a moment of fear flash before him as he brought my hand to his lips and gently kissed my palm. “Happy or scared?” he asked.

My tears fell next. My heart was racing, but it wasn’t from fear—it was from hope. I should’ve been terrified. I should’ve been running to Grams, telling her about what happened. Crying because I was pregnant by a man who I hadn’t known a few months ago.

None of that happened.

I only felt, “Happy.”

He pulled me into a hug and held me so close. I lay my head against his chest, listening to the wildness of his heartbeats. I felt it, too. I felt his happiness.

30

Damian

* * *

A baby.

Our baby.

Stella was pregnant. My mind was still trying its hardest to wrap itself around the concept. It should’ve terrified me, but all I could think was that my life was finally changing for the better. I was going to have the one thing I always wanted—a family. Something that was mine, something I could touch, feel, and hold on to. If it were anyone else, I would’ve retreated, but with Stella?

She was all I ever wanted before I knew what I desired.

I held her in my arms that night as I soothed her nerves, rubbing her lower back.

Her big, brown eyes looked up at me, and every time they did, I fell under her spell. I didn’t believe in Maple’s tarot cards and sage shit, but I did believe that something about Stella held magic to it. Because every time I looked at her, I became hypnotized.

“I always wanted to be a father,” I whispered as my lips set inches away from hers.

“Yeah?” She held on to me as if she were afraid, I’d disappear if she let go.

Not going anywhere, Stella.

I nodded. “Yeah. Even when I was a kid. In some of the foster homes, I remembered watching how the husbands were with their own kids and how they were with me. I remember thinking, if I had the chance, I’d be better. I’d be more patient. More loving. More. It often seemed that the husbands just went along with fostering to get their wives to shut up about it. Some did it for the checks, though.”

“Did you ever stay with a good foster father figure?”