“What?” he asked, distracted by running his fingers over our daughter’s hands.

“Do you like Cecilia?”

“Isn’t that the—”

“Yeah, that was my name. Before.”

“You sure, baby? Can’t exactly take it back once you decide,” he warned, making me second-guess myself.

“I guess not,” I said. Damn, it had seemed like a good idea. But maybe he was right, and I’d hate it once my mushy gushy feelings were gone again.

“I like it, Ladybug,” he replied, leaning down to kiss me softly on the lips. “I think it’s beautiful. I like that it gives her some of your history, that it’s something you can pass on to her. Plus, it’s the girliest name I’ve ever fucking heard, and my girl’s a princess. She needs a girly princess name.”

“Are you sure?” I asked, worried. God, who knew picking a name would be so completely nerve racking? How did people have the balls to name their kids weird shit? Weren’t they afraid they’d hate it later when they had to yell for Rufus or Tomahawk to come in for dinner every night?

“Yeah, Cecilia Rose Butler. Got a nice ring to it, right?”

“It kind of does,” I said, my mouth starting to curve up at the edges.

“Then that’s her name.” He leaned down again to take my mouth in a deep kiss. “God, I fucking love you.”

“Back atcha, handsome.”

“Hey,” Vera’s scratchy voice called from the doorway. “You want us to come back later?” She looked nervous, pulling on the bottom of her sweatshirt with fidgety hands.

“Come in!” I called cheerfully, trying to put her at ease.

Exhaustion was starting to set in, my movements growing sluggish as I leaned my head back against the pillows, but I refused to fall asleep yet. Having Vera in my hospital room seemed important somehow, and at first I couldn’t figure out why. But as she came toward the bed and leaned down to take a look at Cecilia, I understood.

I wanted to show off. Like a kid who brings an art project home from school, dying to show it to their parent for validation. I wanted her to be proud of me, as weird as that was. I wanted to show her that I could do something incredible. And a small part of me wanted her to know that so she’d know that I did just fine without her.

I’d never been completely rational . . . or nice.

“Oh, look at her,” she cooed, leaning over us but keeping her distance. “She looks just like you.”

I looked up in surprise, confused after the conversation we’d just had with Slider, and saw that she was completely sincere. She wasn’t trying to get on my good side, or blow smoke up my ass; in her mind Cecilia looked just like me, no matter the evidence to the contrary. I knew then that she was seeing what she wanted to see—a miniature version of her child.

That’s when I began to love Vera.

“Want to hold her?” I asked groggily, nodding my head at her.

As soon as she’d picked Cecilia up, I turned my face into Cody’s chest. “Tired,” I mumbled, my eyes already closed. “Sorry.”

“It’s all right, Ladybug,” he replied, running his hand through my hair before cupping the back of my head. “I’ll take care of Cecilia. Get some sleep.”

I heard Vera inhale sharply but ignored it, falling asleep within seconds.

Later, I’d look through the photos that Callie took and see that Dragon and Brenna had brought Cameron to the hospital to visit us. The poor kid looked haggard as he’d held Cecilia in his arms, but strangely proud too—his chest puffed out in all the photos. I’d see photos of Grease helping Will hold the baby, the disgusted look on Will’s face changing the scene from something tender to something hilarious. Photos of the man they called Doc, unwrapping Cecilia and counting her fingers and toes. There were pictures of Slider and Vera, Grease and Callie, Dragon and Brenna, and Gram and Lily. But my favorite—the one I’d blow up and frame for Cecilia’s bedroom wall—was a picture of Cody sleeping on the bed next to me, his head resting against the top of mine, with Cecilia sleeping against his chest.

I’d slept through all of their visits. Giving birth was exhausting.

Chapter 40

Farrah

“Why the fuck are we doing this, again?” Cody complained, hanging cloth diapers on a little wooden rack I’d found at the dollar store.

“Because your daughter has sensitive fucking skin, and we can’t use any of the disposable brands,” I snapped back.

We were . . . struggling. A little. Okay, a lot.

Things hadn’t been easy since we’d come home from the hospital, and we were both feeling the lack of sleep. Gram had helped out, and for the first couple of weeks the women of the club had taken shifts, bringing dinner and staying to hold the baby so we could shower and nap. But the help had gradually tapered off, and now that Cecilia was almost three months old, we were pretty much on our own.

“I can’t believe she’s still sleeping,” he said with a sigh. “This must be a record . . . and it’s the middle of the day.”

“I know.” I sat down hard on the couch as he hung up the last diaper. “God, I don’t know if I want you to bend me over the kitchen table and fuck me, or take a freaking nap.”

“I vote kitchen table,” he mumbled before looking at me, then changed his mind. “Ah, a nap would probably be better.”

“I hate this.” I sniffled. “I just want a little time and energy to have sex.”