Page 58 of Angel
Later, when the music softens and the crowd thins, I slip outside for air. The Texas sky stretches wide and forgiving overhead, streaked pink, and gold as the sun dips low. The air is cooler out here. Quieter. Angel follows without asking. He wraps an arm around me from behind, careful, and solid, his chin resting lightly on my shoulder.
“You, okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “Just taking it in.” He presses a kiss to my cheek.
“You did this,” he says softly.
I shake my head. “We did.”
He exhales slowly. “Yeah. We did.”
I lean back into him, both hands resting over the curve of my stomach. The babies shift again, strong, confident movements that make me gasp and laugh at the same time.
“They’re getting big,” Angel murmurs.
“Too big,” I mutter. “My ribs have officially filed complaints.” He chuckles low against my ear.
“I used to think happiness would feel loud,” I say after a moment. “Like fireworks. Like something that explodes.”
He hums thoughtfully. “Feels pretty loud to me.”
I shake my head, smiling. “It’s quieter. But steadier.”
He squeezes me gently. “Best kind,” he says.
I think about the woman I was months ago. Curled around grief. Measuring my worth in test results. Disappearing into numbers.
I think about the woman who asked for space because she couldn’t breathe.
The woman who was terrified love wouldn’t survive the weight of loss.
I think about the version of us that sat in a therapist’s office admitting we didn’t know how to do this.
And I realize, this isn’t just about pregnancy. It’s about us.
We didn’t win because my body finally cooperated.
We won because we learned how to stay, even when it was ugly, when it hurt, and hope had teeth.
Angel’s hand slides down, resting gently over mine on my belly.
“I’m scared,” I admit quietly.
“Me too,” he says without hesitation.
“But not the same way,” I add.
“No,” he agrees. “Not the same way.”
This fear isn’t about losing each other. It’s about protecting what we’ve built. There’s a difference.
Inside, someone laughs loudly. A glass clinks. Music shifts. Life is going on. The last of the bikes pulls away one by one, engines rumbling like distant thunder fading into the night. I close my eyes and breathe. And for the first time in a long, long while, I don’t feel like I have to grip it so tightly it bruises. I can hold it gently. Steadily. Like hope learned to behave. Angel kisses the side of my head.
“We’re close now,” he says softly.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
Close. Not done yet. But close.And whatever comes next, labor, chaos, exhaustion, fear, we’ll meet it the same way we met everything else. Together. I look down at my belly one more time.
