I published it.

And I’m pretty sure two people bought it: one was Reese, and the other was Stan.

Reese offered to post it on his social media, but I didn’t want that. I wrote that book about Damian and me. It was our relationship, and I enjoyed knowing it was out there in the netherworld of sales. Over the next six months, three more people bought it.

Thank you, whoever you are.

As for Reese and I…

“I’m going to murder you!”

I was holding on to his hand in a death grip, my thighs spread wide, and it wasn’t his head between my legs. A fucking basketball was coming out of me.

I know, I know.

I would love the little basketball. I would adore it. This twenty-two hours of pain would be worth it, or so I’d been promised. The outlook wasn’t pointing that way, but then the doctor looked up. His face serious, his mouth in a perpetual firm line, he said the three most heavenly words that made me want to profess my undying adoration of him.

“One. Last. Push.”

Well, I pushed.

I heaved.

I tried to punish Reese by breaking his hand, and he was cringing, but I knew it wasn’t because of me. His gaze was fixed firmly on that doctor too, and then, with a last shove—I was trying here, so bad, but the epidural was working wonderfully—thank goodness—then the basketball was out of me.

I paused, holding my breath, tears streaming down my face.

The doctor lifted up our little basketball, curled up in a fetal position, all wrinkly and purple, and he was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

“She’s a girl!” the doctor announced.

She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

Reese was crying. I was crying, and a heartbeat later, she was crying. See. We were the most perfect family there was.

We named her Echo, call me a sentimental mess, but that’s where Reese and I met. Echo Roman Forster, and yes, her last name matched mine because Reese and I tied the knot a year ago.

Holding Echo, holding Reese’s hand, feeling a swell of feelings, I couldn’t help myself. With the doctor still there, and a roomful of nurses, I asked no one in particular, “Thoughts on why we don’t set toilet paper vertical instead of horizontal?”

THE END