Mom took Scarlett.
She cradled her expertly, one hand beneath the small round head.
Scarlett quieted at once.
I kept Eloise against my own heart, and I looked at my husband across fourteen feet of polished floor.
“Their names are Scarlett Rose and Eloise Jane,” I said.
“Scarlett weighed six pounds, two ounces.”
“Eloise weighed five pounds, eleven.”
“Scarlett was born at 3:12 in the morning.”
“You didn’t know any of it.”
“You never asked.”
“They will have a father when he’s ready to be one.”
“You are not that man yet.”
“Maybe one day.”
“Not today.”
Nobody clapped.
There was a different sound, one I didn’t have a name for until later.
It was a hundred and fifty people letting out their breath all at once.
Ridley touched Dillon’s elbow.
This time, Dillon went.
He walked the long way across the floor, past the rope line and the banner and the podium, past the crew families who would not meet his eyes, with his one empty hand opening and closing at his side.
