Never Giving Up (Never #3)

His eyes wandered to the pile of gifts that still sat next to the chair I’d occupied while opening gifts. A look of shock and surprise floated over the features of his face and I smiled because it was very seldom I got to see a surprised Porter; he was usually the one surprising me. “Where in the heck are we supposed to put all of that?”


“Looks like we might need some more storage in the nursery. It’s all gender neutral stuff, so it can easily be saved and used for the next baby. It will actually make having baby number two way easier.” My voice trailed off, as did my thoughts. I contemplated armoires and chests of drawers, weighing my options for how to best utilize the space in the nursery. I looked to Porter, about to ask him if it was too late to have built-ins installed and his face morphed again into something that resembled euphoria. A smile came over me, impossible to look at him happy and not smile, and I was curious about what brought on this sudden and turbulent mood change. “Babe, you ok? You are all over the emotional map today.”

His attention turned to me and his arm wrapped around my waist, not getting as far around me as it used to, but still doing a good job of pulling me closer to him.

“I just had the best vision of you, holding our child, a toddler, with your belly round with baby number two.” He lowered his head and shook it gently. “Just when you think you can’t fall in love with someone any deeper, you realize there’s so much more you have yet to experience with them, and every single day just makes me love you that much more.”

I was stunned by his words, by his thoughts. Sure, we’ve always planned on having “kids” or “babies.” Our future planning had always had plural children, so it wasn’t a far fetch to jump from Baby One to Baby Two. And then I had my own little day dream; Porter with one child riding on his shoulders, little chubby hands gripping his head, while he walks hand-in-hand with another littler person. The image could be a painting, it was that precious. And I feel exactly as he does, filled to the brim with love, yet still longing to add more love to our life. I took one small moment and placed his hands on my belly, mine resting over his, and then I felt his forehead against mine and I leaned into him.

“How’d we get so lucky?” I whispered to him, hoping that the entire party isn’t witnessing our intimate moment.

“I don’t question it, Ella. I’m just thankful for it.”

Monday morning, bright and early, Porter and I walked into our lawyer’s office and were brought back to a conference room. There was a cart with coffee and muffins, which normally I’d be all over—hello, eight-month pregnant lady here—but this morning I was too nervous to put anything in my stomach. Porter could tell I was anxious, which sent him into a protective frenzy, nearly forbidding me to leave the house. I tried explaining to him that I wasn’t worried about the questions; I was more apprehensive about the process. I’d never been deposed before. It was all new to me and a little nerve wracking.

After a few minutes, more men entered the room and took out folders, laptops, and an audio recorder which they placed in the middle of the table. Our lawyer introduced us to Jason Ramie’s legal team. I shook their hands, trying to keep myself from thinking terrible things about a man who would shoot a woman, trying to kill her, and tried to remind myself that more than likely they were appointed by the state to defend him. Deep breaths in and out. The legal system in our nation gave him the right to a fair trial. Even though it would have been easier had he just admitted to the crime, I was almost looking forward to testifying. I wanted everyone in that courtroom to hear what he’d done to me. That was a kind of justice I couldn’t get anywhere else. So a trial was fine by me.

Everything was very formal and I didn’t get asked any questions I hadn’t answered before when being questioned by the police or my own lawyer. Porter’s hackles raised a few times when the lawyers asked about my relationship with Kyle, and I did my best to calm him with a soothing hand on his thigh, or linking my fingers with his. He was there as a support to me, but I didn’t mind offering him my support. In fact, I reveled in it.

At one point, the defense attorneys asked me about the off-shore accounts Kyle had set up and whether or not I had any knowledge of them. I blinked at the question, but answered honestly with a no.

“So, you really didn’t notice tens of thousands of dollars being syphoned out of your own business?” The man’s voice was accusatory and snide. I fumbled for words, not really sure how to answer him. Luckily my lawyer came to my rescue.

“Mrs. Masters is not on trial here today, gentlemen. I suggest you change your line of questioning or we will end this deposition early.” The defense hardly looked phased by the threat from my lawyer, but moved on to what seemed to be safer questions about the shooting itself.

When everything was finished and we headed home, I could feel the tension radiating off of Porter in the car. He held something back, kept something inside of him, most likely for my benefit, or so he thought.

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