Tears stream down my face as Landon gets on the bed to hold me as best he could with the IV and me not being able to move very much. I feel his soft kiss to my hair. I feel my hair becoming damp from his tears as mine stained his shirt. I am going to live. Thoughts of the future with Landon and Cahal whirl through my head. But then a nagging thought clouds my thoughts like a plague: what if Landon doesn’t want me in his future?

Chapter 28

CHAPTER 28

What if Cahal Gets Sick?

Brooke

I sit in my hospital bed, tapping my pencil on my sketch pad impatiently.

“When did you say their flight lands?” I ask Landon for what is probably the eighth time.

“Wheels touch down at 9:45 a.m.” he answers without looking up from his book.

It has been six days since my surgery, and Sonia is flying in today with Cahal. Landon got the cottage all ready with a crib and any other items he thinks we would need for are extended stay.

Landon has been so kind and patient with me the whole time—asking me what I needed, making sure I eat and take my medication, only allowing medical staff that he approved of to touch me. I glance at the clock—eleven-thirty. It is a two-hour drive from the airport so they should be arriving soon. I tap my pencil some more.

“Has he grown?” I blurt.

“Some.” Again, Landon does not look up.

Cahal is about three weeks old now. “Did he go to his two-week appointment? It’s very important he goes to his appointments,” I say.

Landon closes his book and sits forward in his chair. “Brooke, I promise you, our son has been in the utmost care. He went to his appointment; I took him myself. He has gained twelve ounces since birth. He’s a marathon sleeper, only pausing to take short breaks to eat and poop.”

I give a chagrined smile and feel my cheeks tinge pink. I give a small nod and Landon leans back into his chair. He picks his book back up.

“It’s genetic,” I whisper.

Silence.

After what feels like forever but could only have been a few heartbeats, I feel the bed dip at my side. Landon gently tips my head up to meet his eyes. “I know. I know you’re scared, but it’s a recessive trait and can only be passed to the child if they get a copy of the gene from both parents. And if by some bizarre chance he gets it…we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”

I squint at him. “How do you know that?”

He gives me a confused look. “What?”

“About it being recessive and the copy of the gene from both parents?”