“Me too, Red.” His grip tightens around my hand as he flashes me one of his prized grins. “You want to know the middle name we picked out for him?” My heart skips a beat. I’d given them the task of choosing a middle name weeks ago, but since none of them brought it up again, I figured they just forgot or were unable to decide. On a hitched breath, I ask, “What’d you pick?” Wicker reaches up to swipe a tear away. “James,” he says, cupping my cheek. “Like Stella St. James. So she can still be here with you.”
