Page 37 of Devoured By Havoc
Delia kicks against his palm immediately.
He pulls back, and the look on his face… This scarred, tattooed, terrifying man who makes grown men reconsider their decisions just by walking into a room is pure wonder.
"She's been doing that all afternoon," I tell him.
"She knows my hand," he says, not for the first time, with the same certainty as the first time.
"That's not scientifically proven," I say.
"She knows my hand," he repeats, utterly unbothered by science.
Marcus grabs Jake's head to reorient his attention. "Dad. Fractions. I need help."
"After dinner," Jake tells him. "Go wash up."
Marcus slides down from his shoulders with ease and disappears inside, the door banging behind him with the enthusiasm only children can sustain. Jake lowers himself into the chair beside mine, his long legs stretched out, and for a moment we just sit in the orange evening light and listen to the distant sounds of the city.
This house used to belong to the club. Pope offered it when I was four months pregnant and the apartment we'd been renting started feeling small. I tried to argue about it for approximately three days before Jake looked at me with those gray eyes and said *let people take care of you, Ruby. You've earned it.*
I'm still learning how to do that. But I'm learning.
"Donna says I can come back part-time after Delia's born," I tell Jake. "A few shifts a week. Just until nursing school starts in September."
He nods, his hand still resting on my stomach. "Whatever you want."
"I want to finish the degree."
"I know. You will."
He says it the way he says most things, like it's already decided, like the future is simply a place we haven't walked into yet but will. It used to frustrate me, that certainty. Now I lean on it like a wall.
"Jake."
"Mm."
"I'm happy." I say it plainly, without qualifying it or apologizing for it or waiting for something to come along and take it away. "I just wanted you to know that. I'm really, genuinely happy."
He turns his head to look at me, and his expression is so open, so different from the sealed-off man who handed me napkins on a casino floor and told me *it's fine* in a voice built to discourage conversation.
"Me too," he says. "For the first time in a long time. Me too."
I reach across and take his hand. His scarred, tattooed, gentle hand, and lace my fingers through his.
Delia kicks again. Marcus yells something from the kitchen that's almost certainly going to require our intervention. The lemon tree catches the last of the evening light.
I think about my grandmother. About a small house in Dayton that smelled like cornbread and lavender, and a woman who worked two jobs her whole life and never complained and taught me that strength wasn't about not hurting.
I think she would have loved this porch. This man. This ridiculous, beautiful, improbable life.
*You found your there, baby girl,* I hear her say, clear as anything.
I squeeze Jake's hand and look out at the orange sky.
Yeah, Grandma.
I really did.
