Four Weeks Later
“Cohen!” I yell up the stairs. “We don’t need the diaper bag. Come on please. I need to get him home.”
I smile when he comes bounding down the stairs and scoops me up in his arms, twirling me in a circle before placing me back on my feet.
“Our boy is coming home today!” he bellows through the room, the sound bouncing off each wall and echoing through our house.
“Stop acting crazy and take me to our son,” I beg with a smile on my face.
For four long weeks—a solid month of going back and forth—we’ve been spending every second we had between the house and the hospital. With the help of our mothers, his sisters, and Megan, our house was fully decorated and the baby’s nursery fully stocked before I even left the hospital. They kept me for four days to monitor my injuries as well as my recovery from my C-section, and since my emotions were so crazy when I got home, I cried for hours as I walked from room to room before finally settling in the nursery glider.
It was hard to come home without our baby, and I suffered from a bit of postpartum depression, so things amplified after that. I needed my son home and there just wasn’t anything that would make that feeling better.
Cohen was my rock through it all. He held me when I needed to cry and then again when I needed to scream. He talked me through every second of pain I felt over the events that had happened and taught me that it wasn’t right to feel guilt over a second of it.
Easier said than done. Because some crazy man had fixated on me, and I’d entertained that by thinking he was a friend. We’d almost lost our son—and Cohen had almost lost us both.
I know it’s irrational, that guilt, but it’s part of the healing process. Or so I’m told by my therapist. But it’s a feeling I’m not alone in carrying. Nate had a hard time coping after the attack. He felt guilt worse than mine because he hadn’t been in the room. Lee was dealing with similar issues, but he was able to rationalize his pain and focus on the positive—that he was able to save me. They have both joined me for more than a few of my therapy sessions, and I know they’ve been helping us all heal. Cohen is there for everyone. We’ve talked about how he felt and how he’s coping with it all. I wasn’t surprised in the least that he was still feeling a deep fear about losing me.
He’s been working on his issues with letting me out of his sight. It took my father’s sitting him down for him to finally come to terms with the fact that what had happened was a horrible, traumatic experience, and that, if we can’t focus on moving forward and healing, then it will just drag us down until we’re smothered in memories.
In the end, we were helpless and in a situation beyond our control. Had it not been for their swift response, I have no doubt that both the baby and I would have died in that apartment.
Chance is another part of the reason I’ve been struggling with so much pain. It kills me that he blamed himself—likely still does. But until he’s ready to cope with that and work on healing, I’m afraid there isn’t anything I can do.
It’s been easier. He comes around, but I notice that his eyes never leave mine. Like he’s afraid to look away for fear that someone might attack. He threw himself into the investigation of Mark Seymour like a man possessed.
We found out about two weeks after I was released from the hospital that Mark had been staying in the apartment directly under Cohen’s. Not only had he been watching me for over a year, but he had also had a sick collection of photos of him and me that were horribly Photoshopped. He had created a whole fantasy life—albums after albums of us.
If that weren’t bad enough, he had set up the apartment with items of mine that he had stolen throughout the year. Things I hadn’t even known were missing. He had a whole life made up for us, and the only thing that was missing was . . . me.
After his death, the police were able to locate the bodies of the two men he had slain before he’d stormed us that day. He had left detailed notes about where he’d tossed their bodies. At least, with that, their families would get some closure.
It’s been hard for everyone. We are struggling with just how insane the man who almost stole my life before it could truly begin was, but we’re all slowly healing. Today will be a big step in that process.
“I can’t wait to get him home, Cohen. To show him the house and have him under our roof.”
Cohen reaches over and grabs my hand, the one he placed a ridiculously huge diamond on three weeks ago—without proposing. “Same here, Dani-girl. It’s going to feel damn good to have my family together in our home.” He kisses my knuckles, flicks my ring with his thumb, and looks out the windshield with a huge grin.
We make it to the hospital in record time and have our son discharged and strapped to his car seat as soon as the last form is signed. I hug all the nurses we had gotten to know over the last month, and we make quick work of leaving the hospital behind on our way back to our house.
It is past time to get our family home.
Owen—meaning little fighter—James Cage. Our gorgeous son. I smile to myself and look over at his sleeping face from my spot in the back seat.
Just like Cohen said, Owen looks just like him. His dark hair, tan skin, and perfectly handsome face.
But those lips are all mine.
IT’S BEEN TWO WEEKS SINCE we brought Owen home from the hospital, and leaving him today for my six-week checkup was harder than I ever imagined. Cohen and I had agreed that, since the visit would be a short one and I could pump any milk Cohen would need to feed him while I was gone, I would use this as a dry run to leave the baby.
In the last two weeks, I’ve struggled to do something as mundane as take a shower. The fear I’ve had over letting him out of my sight is unexplainable. I know Cohen is worried about me, so I agreed with him more or less to placate his concerns.
But sitting here, with the paper sheet over my naked bottom half while my ass sits on the cold chair, isn’t making me feel like I’ve hit some big milestone. It makes me feel like I need to have my baby in my arms.
“I think it’s time to stop freaking out, Dani.”
I look up, meet my mom’s eyes, and give her a small smile. I don’t even try to hide my mild embarrassment.
“I understand how you feel, my darling girl, but leaving your son for a few hours isn’t the end of the world. It’s good for him to bond with his father alone—or his grandparents. I’m not saying you should start planning vacations, but sitting at home day in and day out while never letting him out of your sight isn’t healthy.”
I sigh. “I know.” And I do. I know it isn’t normal, but I can’t seem to get my body to get with the program and physically leave him.
“If it would make you feel better, we can call Cohen. He can give you the reassurance that you need.”
I shake my head, knowing that, if I call home thirty minutes after leaving to check on Owen, all it will do is make Cohen worry about me more. “No. I trust Cohen, and I know he won’t let anything happen to Owen. I just need to get over my issues that something bad is going to happen. Ever since the whole . . . Mark thing, I keep thinking that something else is going to come and take away my happiness.”
Mom sighs and walks over to me, grabbing my hand and looking me in the eyes. “There isn’t one thing in this life that’s a guarantee, Dani. Nothing. I’ve lived a life that I can say that with clarity. But if you continue to have yourself stuck in the past of worry and fear, there is no way you’re going to be able to enjoy the life and future you hold in your hands.”
I study her face, finding love in her eyes and the hope that I understand what she’s saying.
“I need to get out of my head,” I respond.
“Yeah, sweetheart. You need to get out of your head,” she says with another big smile.