“Not really.” She managed a soft laugh. “I’ve spent a lifetime trying to buck tradition. Hell, I fled to another country to escape it.”
She reached out to touch his hand. “But I’ve quit running, and I think it’s nice that our son embodies the best of both our families.”
“I-I don’t know what to say.” He blinked and turned his hand over to capture hers. “Ronnie sounds close enough to Rocky, so let’s do it.”
She smiled as he lifted her hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss on the back.
“We can leave the discussion of his surname until another day,” he said, with a meaningful stare.
Samira wasn’t a fool. She may be spending most days in a fog of restless sleep and silent praying, but she knew what Rory meant. He may not have actually said the words “I love you,” but she’d heard him say he’d be with her forever just before she’d been wheeled into surgery. And by his actions the past week, nothing had changed. Now that she loved him, what would she say if he wanted to make their relationship official? He’d once proposed out of obligation. What would she do if he did it for real?
But she didn’t want to preempt anything or pressure him into making a declaration he didn’t want, so she said, “Ron Radcliffe sounds good to me.”
He blinked again, several times, and the tenderness in his eyes almost undid her. “Thank you.”
“No, Rory, thank you. For being here the last week. For everything.”
He wanted to ask questions, she saw it in his gaze, so she buried her face in his chest and let him hold her tight. They would talk. Eventually.
But for now, they needed their beautiful baby boy to live.
Forty-Nine
Rory hadn’t asked Samira the hard questions yet.
Are you engaged to Dr. Dickhead?
Do you only want me around because of Ronnie?
Is our closeness an illusion born of mutual fear of losing the one thing that binds us?
He couldn’t ask her any of that, not when only fourteen days had passed and their son still lay in that crib hooked up to machines helping him live.
The pediatricians were cautiously optimistic. Ronnie had gained over one pound, and while his suck-swallow reflex still wasn’t well coordinated, the weight gain was a good sign.
But seeing his son lying in that crib behind hardened plastic still stabbed him in the chest every time he saw him. He hated everything about the NICU. The faux perky nurses, the doctors speaking in hushed tones, the antiseptic smell. There were other babies there, smaller than Ronnie, and parents who wore the same terrified yet stoically optimistic expressions he did.
Samira appreciated his strength. She clung to him whenever they entered that sterile room, a room emanating false cheer with orange giraffes and purple elephants splashed across the walls. But he wasn’t buying it, because bad things happened in that room. Babies lost their lives; parents lost their kids. He wouldn’t breathe properly again until they got the all clear from the medicos and could take Ronnie home.
That wouldn’t be for a while yet. The next two weeks would be critical. If Ronnie reached thirty-six weeks and started breathing and feeding on his own, they’d be okay. As for the doctors’ predictions of possible doom in the future with learning disabilities and the rest, he’d deal with that when he faced it.
Though one good thing came out of sitting by his son’s crib day in, day out over the last fourteen days. The enormity of what his child might face in the future put his stutter into perspective.
He’d been an idiot. He’d spent his entire life feeling inadequate because of it, feeling self-conscious and less than others. He’d become increasingly insecure, and it had affected his relationships with women.
Not anymore.
If the worst thing his kid had to suffer was a stammer, Ronnie would be doing okay. And it was time he came clean to Samira about it too.
As he strode toward the NICU, he spied a tall figure coming the opposite way. The closer he got, Rory recognized him, and his steps slowed. The last thing he needed was a run-in with Samira’s supposed fiancé. But he couldn’t avoid him, considering they were about to cross paths, and Rory gritted his teeth against the urge to slug the too-perfect doctor.
“Congrats on your son, Rory.” Manish stuck out his hand, and he had to take it rather than appear churlish.
“Thanks, he’s amazing.”
“He is.”
Manish released his hand, and Rory glanced over his shoulder, eager to get back to Ronnie’s bedside. But this was an opportunity to ask Manish the hard questions he couldn’t ask Samira, not right now with their child battling for every breath he took.
“So you’re engaged to Samira despite not loving her?”
Manish’s jaw dropped for a moment, before he recovered. “I’m not sure where that came from, but I wouldn’t believe everything you hear on the Indian grapevine. You’ll get used to it eventually, but they take that old cliché of making mountains out of molehills to extremes.”
Confused, Rory shook his head slightly. “Is that a yes or no?”
“It’s a hell no,” Manish said, looking faintly amused. “We’re not engaged. Samira’s great, but we’re friends.” He smirked. “Besides, even if I went in for all that arranged marriage stuff, it wouldn’t happen, because she’s in love with you.”
Something stilled inside Rory, like the entire world had gone quiet and every one of his senses was heightened. He could see the stubble along the doctor’s jaw where he’d missed a spot shaving, he could hear the faintest siren of an ambulance miles away, he could smell a pungent ammonia mixed with a hint of lemon.
Samira loved him?
She hadn’t given him the slightest indication. In fact, saying she wanted to marry this guy was pretty much the opposite of being in love with him. So what the hell was going on, and how did this guy know about it before he did?
“Mate, you look shell-shocked.” Manish chuckled. “Look, I don’t know what’s happened between you two, but I haven’t seen Samira in months. Not since the last time we ran into each other at her mom’s place. We’ve texted a few times—that’s it.”
“But she told me she was marrying you . . .”
Manish held up his hands like he had nothing to hide. “Like I said, I don’t know what went down between you, but it sounds like she used me as an excuse to push you away. I have no idea why, but she’s probably terrified, considering she’s been married before, the cultural implications, the age difference—”
“Thanks, I get the idea.”