Chapter Seven

Beautiful Boy

John Lennon

Natalie

From where I lay, exhausted, hair matted, I see it all—our entire week in Mexico flash by in a blink. From the minute I laid in that lounger admiring Easton, to the second we flew home, hands firmly clasped, hope in our hearts—just as the nurse places our naked son on my equally bare chest. Eyes filled with wonder, tears drip from Easton’s beautiful jaw as he lays eyes on our baby for the first time, the same undeniable infatuation and love shining in them, a look he often reserves only for me. I’m fine with sharing it due to the elation I feel in watching him. I wish to God I could bottle it up, but luckily, I don’t have to. I have a future filled with doses of these moments ahead, no planning necessary.

Easton cries openly, his eyes transfixed on our beautiful baby before he lifts his wonder-filled gaze to me. He leans in, placing the most reverent kiss on my lips. I kiss him back with all the love I feel. When he slowly pulls away, we say nothing, and we don’t have to. We’re there again, in my favorite place.

Filled to the brim with the best kind of emotion but exhausted, Easton gathers our boy into his arms as a nervous nurse comes in, her eyes darting between us.

Easton’s dazed smile comes easily to comfort her as he speaks.

“Let me guess, there are four crazed grandparents demanding to lay eyes on proof there is a grandchild.”

She laughs in relief. “Pretty much.”

“Give us two minutes,” he asks, his eyes scouring the baby.

“I’m not sure,” she looks behind her at the door in fear.

“You’ve got this, just two,” Easton coaxes with a friendly wink.

Her cheeks redden a little. “Done.”

Easton looks over to me and reads my expression, which probably looks a lot like guilt. Residual guilt for thinking that for one minute he wouldn’t be there for me or our son. Because he was right, for a while, I did buy into the illusion.

“No regrets, Beauty. God, I don’t regret a thing, so you don’t either, okay? All our mistakes led to this moment, don’t let anything take it away from you, or us.”

“How do you do that?”

“Simple, you’re my favorite book to read, Beauty.” He gazes down at his son. “Your eyes, and the rest is mine.”

“I believe there’s a little red tint to that peach fuzz,” I snark.

He gives me a knowing grin. “I believe you’re reaching, baby.”

“I know,” I sigh, knowing our child is the spitting image of a Crowne, namely his father.

“He’s got long fingers,” he whispers as they wrap around his pointer. He unwraps the rest of him on his lap. “Oh, those long toes are yours.”

“Hey!”

“Baby,” he quirks a brow, “your toes are a bit freaky.”

“It’s called a dominant toe. When the second toe is longer than the big toe, that indicates dominance.”

He gives our son big eyes. “No arguing that,” he coos as if they’re already sharing inside jokes.

I rest my cheek on the pillow and look over at the man who changed my life the minute he entered it. I fell in love with the vulnerable soul searcher he was the day I met him in Seattle. Fell further for the sexy, confident, and seductive no-bullshit man who confronted me time and again to be brave. Was head over heels for the man who swept me up in a whirlwind of attention and affection and married me beneath the stars in the desert. I was desperate for the man who searched me out amongst the chaos our union created—that we created—only to declare his devotion again and marry me a second time without bitterness in his heart. I was so far gone for the struggling husband who, in the past few years, gave his all to be the husband he wanted to be, determined to keep me close. Today, as I study him much the same way I did in Mexico, this time draped in a blue gown from neck to arms, dark lashes flitting over his cheeks as he gazes at the result of all we’ve endured, fought for, I get to fall in love with Easton as a father. Though I can’t imagine loving him more than I do in this moment, I’m sure he’ll surprise me. He always has.

He continues his first conversation with our yawning baby as I watch on, amazed by him and the newly delivered other love of my life.

“Now, let’s see if you’ve got Mommy’s taste in music.”

“Like he has a choice,” I roll my eyes. “My taste is yours, remember?”

He’s smiling as he looks over to me, pride shimmering in his eyes.

“We did it, baby.”

“We did,” I sigh, lulled by his voice and content with the sight of our world in his arms.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

“It was a team effort,” I shrug as if twelve hours of labor was nothing.

Most definitely not nothing.

It was hell on earth, only made bearable as he lived through it with me, holding my hand, his supportive whispers giving me the strength I so desperately needed.

Morning sickness—a myth. I puked day and night for three months.

Pregnancy hormones—no comment. I’m ashamed.

Discomfort during pregnancy—underplayed. I smite any woman who declares they loved being pregnant.

Pregnancy sex? That I can testify is a religious experience and one I refused to go without. At one point, I was such a fiend that I managed to rope Alice into flying me to Easton during one of his rare absences for a booty call. I don’t think he’s ever laughed so hard as he did the night I burst into his hotel room demanding sex while pointing fingers around my giant baby bump. I was a maniac for him and nearly broke my husband’s beautiful cock in the process. I regret nothing.

Screaming during labor—not a myth. Underrepresented on screen in my opinion. I felt that shit and nearly passed out from the pain.

Also, afterbirth is disgusting, and there’s a reason it’s cut out of movies.

Real life is so fucking far from any fairytale representation, or any other image drummed up.

The truth is far more rewarding.

My truth?

I married a rock star who still insists he’s a musician. We just agree to disagree on that.

I’ll forever be overprotective of him and what we have…as will he, ferociously, but the fight is worth it.

Our lives aren’t epic on the daily, even with the gift we found in each other. We still fight, and sometimes go a day without really speaking after. We disagree on certain things, sometimes to the point we might never find common ground. But we also laugh, hysterically together and at each other. We screw up, often, and make the best of it. We fuck and make love, often, and it’s sometimes a salve to whatever disappointment we feel in life or the other, but it always brings us closer.

We protect each other, support each other, and remain honest in the same spin cycle of all these things combined.

But the love…the love. The love we feel, covet, and share is so much fucking better than any fiction could ever be, and that we have in spades.

And as our parents file into the room to witness the evidence of that love and start to bicker about the dominance of our gene pools—while Damon and Holly trail behind as he bitches about the size of the gift basket he can’t see around—Easton and I stare on at the other with matching smiles. The same sentiment in both our hearts for whatever comes next.

Bring it on.

Bet.

Butler Emerson Crowne - February 14, 2041

8lb 2oz.

THE END

Well, one more for the road…

In my Life

The Beatles