The Things We Leave Unfinished Yarros, Rebecca (reading like a writer .TXT) 📖

“And you don’t want to know?” Constance arched an eyebrow.

“Of course I want to know. I will love my son or my daughter with all my heart. I already do. But while I’ve entertained both possibilities, only one is the truth. Once this baby is born, that part of the story is over. One of the scenarios I’ve spent the last six months imagining won’t come true. That doesn’t make the outcome any less sweet, but the truth is, when a story is finished, no matter what kind it is, the possibilities are gone. It is what it is, or it was whatever it was.”

“So be kind to your characters and give them all a happy ending,” Constance suggested. “That’s better than anything they’d have in the real world.”

Scarlett stared at the hatbox. “Perhaps the kindest thing I could do for the characters would be to leave their stories unfinished. Leave them with their possibilities, their potential, even if they only exist in my own mind.”

“You leave the letter unopened,” Constance said softly.

“Perhaps I do.”

A sad smile curved Constance’s mouth. “And in that world, perhaps Edward is actually on leave, sneaking up to Kirton-in-Lindsey to see me.”

Scarlett nodded, her entire body tightening with nearly painful emotion.

The kettle whistled, and Constance rose to her feet. “It might be a bit difficult to get published that way,” she said over her shoulder with a forced, teasing smile. “I think most people appreciate books with endings.”

“I hadn’t really thought as far as actually publishing anything.” The ache in her back flared, reaching around to the front of her abdomen in a breath-stealing, vicious grip.

“You should. I’ve always loved listening to your stories. Everyone should get that chance.”

Scarlett shifted her weight again as Constance made tea. “I think perhaps we should take that in the living room. This chair isn’t agreeing with me.”

“We can do that.”

The sound of porcelain clicking filled the kitchen as Scarlett struggled to her feet. Little by little, the ache dissipated, and she managed her first full breath.

“Scarlett?” Constance questioned, the tray in her hands.

“I’m okay. Just a bit stiff.”

Constance put the tray on the table. “Would you rather take a walk? Would that help?”

“No. I’m sure I just need to stretch my limbs here for a minute.”

Constance glanced at the clock. “Why don’t we ring for the midwife? Just to be sure.”

Scarlett shook her head. “The nearest phone is three blocks away, and I’m fine.” She was…until the ache returned and spread again, locking all the muscles of her abdomen.

“You are most certainly not fine.”

Scarlett felt a pop, and then warmth gushed down her thighs. Her waters had broken. Fear unlike anything she’d ever known gripped her tighter than the contraction.

“I’ll ring for the midwife.” Constance took her elbow and guided her to the chair. “Sit. Don’t try to walk until I can get you into bed.”

“I want Jameson.”

“Of course,” Constance said in that soothing tone of hers as she made sure Scarlett was seated.

“Constance,” Scarlett snapped, then paused until her sister looked her in the eye. “I. Want. Jameson.”

“I’ll ring the midwife, then the squadron, I promise. Midwife first, unless your husband developed some expertise on delivering a baby?”

Scarlett glared.

“Right. Sit. Don’t move. For once in your life, let me be in charge.” She ran out the door before Scarlett could argue.

Five minutes. Ten minutes. Scarlett watched the clock tick the minutes by as she waited for Constance.

The front door opened twelve minutes after she’d left.

“I’m here!” Constance called out from the living room just before Scarlett heard the door shut. Her sister wore a large, fake smile as she came through the kitchen door. “Good news. The midwife will pop by in just a bit. She said to get you upstairs into a clean bed.”

“Jameson?” Scarlett asked through gritted teeth as another contraction took hold.

“How many contractions did you have while I was gone?” Constance asked, grabbing a few towels from a kitchen drawer and mopping up the mess she’d left.

“Two. This is the. Third.” Scarlett fought through it with deep breaths, that pain only the tip of the iceberg. “Where. Is. Jameson?”

Constance threw the towels into the wash bin.

“Constance!”

“Somewhere over the North Sea.”

“Of course he is,” she said through gritted teeth. She should have told him to stay, but there’d been no reason to—no reason acceptable to the wing leader, at least.

“I won’t leave your side,” Constance promised as she helped Scarlett to her feet.

She didn’t.

…

Nine hours later, Scarlett was tucked between newly cleaned sheets, absolutely knackered and happier than she’d ever been as she stared down at a pair of bright blue eyes.

“I don’t care what those midwives said.” Constance peered over her shoulder. “Those eyes are going to stay just that utterly, perfectly blue.”

“Even if they don’t, they’ll still be perfect,” Scarlett declared, running her finger across the tip of the smallest nose she’d ever seen.

“Agreed.”

“Do you want to hold him?” Scarlett asked.

“May I?” Constance beamed.

“It seems only fair, seeing as you were equal parts nurse and maid today. Thank you.” Her voice softened. “I couldn’t have done it without you.” She lifted her son, swaddled in one of the blankets Jameson’s mother had made and shipped to them, into Constance’s arms.

“I wouldn’t have missed it,” Constance said, adjusting the newborn in her arms. “He’s perfect.”

“We want you to be his godmother.”

Constance’s gaze snapped to hers. “Really?”

Scarlett nodded. “I can’t imagine anyone else. You’ll protect him, won’t you? If anything…should happen.” She was in just as much danger from a bombing raid sleeping in her bed as she was when she’d been in the WAAF. Nothing was certain.

“With my life.” Constance’s eyes misted over as she looked back at the baby in her arms. “Hello, little one. Hopefully your father will be home soon so we can call you by a real name.” She shot Scarlett a pointed look.

Scarlett smiled. She’d refused to discuss his name until Jameson held him.

“I’m your Aunt Constance. I