A thousand miles off the coast, floating through life. But I’m grounded here with them.
Happy and home.
I begin to smile, and I look up at the palm fronds and the peeking sky. I look down at her and at him, and I whisper, “Lord have mercy on my soul.”
EPILOGUE
SULLIVAN MEADOWS
Sweat beads up on my forehead, sticking pieces of my dark brown hair to my squared jaw. Akara pries the pieces off with one of his hands—the other, I’m squeezing to fucking death and refuse to relinquish.
Sorry, Kits.
Banks has my left hand in his comforting grip. He hates hospitals, but when my water broke in the Jeep and we were stuck in paparazzi-induced traffic for three hours—I seriously thought he would bumper-car our way here. He ran about five red lights.
Booger is in one piece.
But for a minute there, I was afraid I’d be pushing out a baby in the Jeep. Adam Sully would’ve loved that, I think. My husbands—not so fucking much.
Akara wheeled me into the hospital, and Banks was shoving every non-automatic door open like it was a fucking cameraman.
I’m here now. Safe and in excruciating pain. I try to take controlled breaths, oxygen filling my lungs. I can do this. I can do anything.
I’m too far dilated for an epidural, apparently. “Are you fucking sure?” came out of my mouth, Banks’ mouth, Akara’s mouth about a hundred times.
“Positive,” Dr. Wescott said, a short woman with icy eyes. Besides the height, she kinda reminds me of my Aunt Rose. I could’ve had Farrow deliver the baby, but I just see him way more as Moffy’s husband and a really close friend. And I didn’t want him to see my vagina.
He totally understood.
“Hey, you’re doing great, Sul.” Akara wipes more sweaty hair off my forehead. I catch a glimpse of the tattoo on his bicep. An inked mermaid with turquoise scales and seashells in her brown hair. He tickles my foot in the stirrup, my legs spread open.
I laugh a little into a groan. Fuck, it hurts.
“You’ve got this, mermaid.” Banks kisses my white-knuckles—oh fuck, I’m white-knuckle gripping his hand, but he doesn’t care. I see his lips press to the tattoo on my ring finger. Three black lines, inked like waves. Just like their forever ring. Permanent.
Ever-fucking-lasting.
That’s us. That’s been us.
Focused back on my goal, I inhale three more giant breaths. God, childbirth sucks. But I know the best part is coming, and so I keep pushing when the doctor says to push.
I grit down and scream through my teeth. Squeezing my husbands’ hands in my hands.
“One more big push, Sulli,” Dr. Wescott says. “You’re almost there.”
We’re almost there.
We’re almost fucking there.
With everything in me, all the grit and determination and fortitude I’ve ever felt, I summon now. And I push and push—and I scream, not breathing. Not coming up for air until my baby takes a breath—and I hear Kits and Banks, encouraging me, comforting me, here for me. They’ve always been here.
And then a baby’s cry pitches the air. The best sound in the fucking world. Relief surges, and I see our newborn in the doctor’s hands.
Akara has tears in his smiling eyes. Banks squeezes my shoulder, his chest rising in a deep, overcome breath, and I collapse back, sweaty. Overwhelmed tears leaking. I don’t let go of my husbands yet.
“The baby’s alright?” I rasp, not able to see as they clean off our newborn.
Dr. Wescott gently places the crying baby on my chest. “He’s perfectly healthy. Congratulations on your baby boy.” She speaks to all of us.
Akara and Banks exchange a loving look.
I cry harder as our baby stretches his little fingers and tries to cling to my sweaty chest. I hold him against me. “He already has your hair,” I cry-laugh to Banks. Brown tufts of hair on his little delicate head that matches Banks’ hue. His skin is so soft.
“He’s smaller than I thought he’d be,” Banks tries to joke, but tears slip out of his eyes. He rubs the creases, as Akara says, “We’d have serious problems if he came out six-seven.”
We all laugh through waterworks. Banks touches his little hand, and our son tries to clasp his finger. He is falling instantly in love with him. So is Akara, as he combs the little tufts of his hair, and our baby calms, his cries softening—little breaths puffing out of little lips.
My whole heart belongs to so many boys.
Akara wipes his own wet cheeks. “He’s perfect, Sul.”
“He really fucking is, Kits,” I breathe, looking up at Akara.
He bends closer to me and clasps my jaw with a determined, powerful hand. I sink into the kiss like a little girl sinks into a pillow. Letting a dream consume her.
When I turn to Banks, his hand is strong and callused, encasing my cheek, and he dips his head to meet my lips. My heart swells with each second under the weight of his love.
Our gazes stay latched, even as our lips break apart, and I ask, “Who wants to hold him first?”
“Let Banks,” Akara says.
Banks nods, and I’m already handing him our baby. He cradles him with ease, already having tons of practice. Akara smiles, “He looks just like you.”
Banks shakes his head, swaying a little with our son. “He has his mom’s beauty.”
When I’m sweaty and gross and exhausted, Banks manages to make me feel like a fucking goddess. I ease back into the love and the way Akara keeps brushing my sweaty hair out of my face. The stroke and rhythm relaxing every bit of me, and Banks passes the baby to Akara.
Kits can’t stop smiling—a smile that reaches and glitters his eyes tenfold.
The doctor and nurses have left to give us more alone-time with our newborn. But I glance over at the closed door. “Can someone go get him?”
Just as I say the words, I hear loudly outside the room, “Grammie Daisy, Grampie Rykie—can I see Mommy now?”
Banks calls out, “You can let him in!”
The door cracks open, and a little boy with black hair and a big smile that reaches and glitters his eyes suddenly races one-hundred-and-fifty miles per hour, no brakes, into the hospital room. “Daddy!”
He bounds straight for Banks.
We’re all smiling as our son playfully hides behind Banks’ legs. Banks scratches his head. “Anyone seen a little champ anywhere?”
He’s giggling.
Akara is in cahoots with our son. He puts his finger to his lips, “Shhh.”
“Shhh,” our son mimics back. “Dad, I’m quiet like a mouse.” He is a lot quieter now, and then Banks spins around. He squeals into full-bodied kid laughter.
Banks lifts him up onto his shoulders.
Born on April 7th, five years ago, Seven Kitsuwon Meadows loves being up high just as much as he loves his two dads. There was never a moment, never a day, where Banks wasn’t so much a part of his life and so influential in who he’s become. Banks says he surprised himself again—how well he took to fatherhood.
Akara wasn’t surprised at all.
Neither was I.
And though I never knew Akara’s dad, I know he’d be proud to see Akara thrive as a father. Teaching Seven how to snowboard and play little kid drums and pick himself up after a fall. The kind of father that creates new legacies and keeps old ones alive.