Page 31 of Light

Foley, who’s moved forward to hook his arm around ’Dia’s neck, skids to a halt. “Oh, hell.”

“No, man.” I smile wider. “More like complete heaven. At least now.”

He doesn’t let me down, going at least three shades paler. “That your way of giving me permission to sit this part out?”

“Probably a wise idea.”

“That also your way of saying I need to break out the good whisky?”

“Another wise id—”

“Oh my God.” Right on cue, Lydia’s outcry is like a new firework in the night. It’s a verbal representation of the pyrotechnics already bursting inside my entire being—and, as I sweep back down to be with my wife again, the same light show taking over her spirit from the inside out. “Oh my God. Baby girl!”

“Hmmm.” Emma quirks a teasing grin. “In case you haven’t noticed, it’s more like baby boy…”

But ’Dia’s already activated into holy-shit-the-world-is-detonating mode. “Boil hot water!” she yells at Foley. “And get Neeta! And— And—”

“Dee Dee.” Emma winces a little but manages to reach and grasp Lydia’s fingertips. She falls back against my lap but doesn’t let go of her sister. Yes, with our son still yawning and happy on her chest. Yes, with her dress in shreds and her abdomen likely feeling like a punched football. Yes, with the happiest smile I’ve ever seen across her exquisite, exhausted face. “Come and say hello to your new nephew.”

Lydia leans in, her bright-green eyes thick with a tearful sheen. “The most beautiful nephew there ever was.” As she reaches and dabs our son’s nose, making him burst with a soft giggle, ’Dia’s chin trembles. “You’re already a flirty hunk, aren’t you?”

The tenderness in her voice has me swallowing hard. “He’s already a miracle,” I rasp out. “Just like his mama.”

As if needing to prove my point, our son bats his little hand up toward Emma’s smiling lips—and then gurgles, “Mama. Yes! Mama.”

Lydia goes paler than Sawyer. “Holy…shit.”

“Holy shit!” Our son laughs it out, adding emphasis with a sound smack of his palms. The sound seems to stun him, but he giggles louder and repeats the action. “Holy shit. Holy shit!”

“Oh dear God.” Lydia blurts it fast enough to make it one word. She jerks her wide, astounded stare up at her sister and then me. “Miracle isn’t the right word for this creature.” She shakes her head. “But I seriously have no idea what is.”

“Lux.”

My wife’s reply has both ’Dia and me throwing dazed looks at her. She returns the curiosity in our eyes with the turquoise surety of her own—a confidence that makes its way down to her serene smile. “Lux,” she repeats. “It’s Latin for ‘light’—which is exactly what he is.” She lovingly strokes our son’s strong forehead. “Which is exactly what we’re going to call him.”

Lydia inches her lips up with an enchanted smile. “Lux,” she echoes before dipping an approving nod. “Yeah.”

I lower my head until my forehead is resting against the side of Emma’s. Together, we gaze in gratitude and wonder at our amazing anomaly of a son. “Our light,” I murmur, at once accepting how right it feels to speak it. “It’s perfect.”

“Just like him,” Lydia concurs.

“Just like us,” I correct her with a jubilant grin.

Emma joins our baby in a tender chuckle at that. “How right you are, beautiful husband,” she assures—and never has it felt more awesome to dazzle her with one of my fast, cocky, you-just-made-my-day winks—before I whip out the comeback that makes perfect sense for this perfect moment.

“I usually am, gorgeous wife.”

Chapter Four

Emma

“Holy shit!”

Lux ends his delighted shriek with wild applause, the smacks echoing out from the den and through the house like comic-book gunfire—with all that pretend residue turning into bitter grit between my grinding teeth. Not a fun sensation when one is in the middle of trying to master farm animal cake pops. And really not fun when one’s big sister is sitting across the kitchen counter, giggling about the fact that this has been a daily occurrence for the last ten months.

I glower while shoving a new tray of unfrosted pops at her, along with the bowl of yellow “chicken” frosting. “This is still all your fault, missy.”

“Heeeyyy.” She sticks out her tongue before sliding a new ball through the Big Bird-colored goo. “How was I supposed to know your ‘miracle kid’ already knew what words were, let alone the trick of connecting them to stuff?” As she lets the excess frosting drip back into the bowl, she goes on, “I was just the auntie who thought we’d get to do ‘mama,’ ‘dada,’ and ‘the duck goes quack’ first.”