Lost King by Piper Lennox (moboreader txt) 📗

holding Van’s kids that tipped the scales for me. It was seeing Ruby hold a baby, any baby, and suddenly loving that sight more than I ever thought I could.

She pushes off from my chest and eyes the phone. “Forty-two seconds left. Which one of us is checking, this time?”

My back pops in the charged silence when I get up. “It’s my turn.”

“Do me a favor,” she whispers, when I lean down to kiss her forehead—my silent reminder that, no matter what it says, we’ll be okay.

“Anything.”

“Don’t say ‘positive’ or ‘negative.’ Just...just look at me. I’ll know.”

I watch as she fidgets with her necklace, running the pearls back and forth across her bottom lip.

The timer sounds. I should have picked a better ringtone. This one bleats up and down my spine, so I can only imagine what it’s doing to her nerves.

I go into the bathroom. The test sits on the edge of the sink, in its unofficial waiting spot by her curling iron. She tore off the most absurdly perfect squares of toilet paper to rest it on, and that kind of breaks my heart. It’s a testament to how precisely we’ve planned for something that, at the end of the day, is entirely up to fate.

I look at the test window.

“Well?” she asks. I can hear her clacking the necklace against her teeth, now.

“Do me a favor,” I call, picking up the test and starting back to the bedroom. I lean against the doorframe and point it at her. “If I faint in the delivery room from all the blood, keep that between us.”

The funny thing is, it’s not my joke that clues her in. It’s not even the fact I’m now waving the obviously positive test right in front of her.

I see the light click, an awed smile taking over her face, only after she searches my eyes. That’s the answer she trusts most.

Almost two years ago, the day after our wedding, I changed my name.

“‘Ruby Paulsen Durham,’” Theo read, when I skipped my way back to the Jeep and all but threw the paperwork into his lap. “I still don’t see why you didn’t just hyphenate, but if you’re happy, I’m happy.”

“I am so happy. And relieved.” It was more than just casting off “Aria,” the ever-present reminder of our complicated beginning. It felt amazing to have Mom’s maiden name there. Almost as good as shedding my father’s last name, and fitting “Durham” in its place.

For the first time ever, my name matched exactly who I was.

“Well, Mrs. Durham,” Theo winked, straightening the papers against the dash, “should we get our honeymoon started?”

I don’t know what melted me more: the sound of my new title in that deep, charming voice…or the look he flashed me as he started the car and pulled away, silently promising an incredible night.

Not that the one before hadn’t already fulfilled that promise and then some. Right after the ceremony in Manhattan, we adjourned to a hotel room, hung out the Do Not Disturb sign, and spent the rest of the day clothes-free, only taking our hands off each other to pop champagne. And I think there was a meal in there, somewhere.

Our small courthouse wedding—consisting of just his father and Kimberly, my mom, and Aunt Thalia—disappointed the rest of the group, who’d banked on us having a giant party like Van and Juni, or at least a small destination elopement like Wes and Clara. But it was perfect for us. Theo didn’t want to mingle with a packed reception; I didn’t want to spend the money we’d been saving for a house.

Now, as the airport came into view, he eyed the papers in my hands and asked, “You’re sure you don’t mind doing it this way?”

“Watching Georgia and Rylan plan their wedding is stressful enough,” I told him, partially joking, mostly dead-serious. I’d gone with the girls to a bridal fitting last weekend. Twenty-something gowns later, Georgia looked ready to pass out from frustration.

“Besides,” I added, when he still didn’t look convinced, “we tried the ‘big wedding’ thing, remember? We were both miserable after, like, three venue tours.”

“True.” He drummed on the wheel a moment. “And it was nice, getting it done that quickly. For your mom’s sake.”

My mood dove a little as I nodded. That was another factor in our decision, even though we pretended otherwise. Planning a wedding would’ve taken us well over a year between my new job with a small LLC, helping stage homes before they went on the market, and Theo’s new gig playing piano with a local jazz band. He spent his weekends playing for schools—helping out with choir concerts and school plays—so it might’ve taken us even longer. By then, who knew what kind of condition my mom would be in.

“She has been doing better, though,” Theo offered. “Thalia said the wheelchair days are fewer than the walker days, now.”

I gave a halfhearted smile and agreed with him. “Better” was such a relative term. Yes, she was better than this time last year, but worse than the year before, when she barely needed a wheelchair at all. For all the surprise peaks, her downward trend always held steady.

“She’s been looking at nursing homes.” I didn’t mean to start crying, but it was the one dark spot on my memories of yesterday. When I cornered my aunt about some pamphlets I’d found during my last two visits, she confessed Mom’s plan to move into a home now that she required assistance, or at least supervision, 24/7.

She balked at the thought of everyone chipping in for nearly full-time home care. And she wouldn’t entertain the thought of living with us, no matter how much Theo and I insisted.

It wasn’t a new plan,