Rebirth: Love me Again
Chapter 360: Countdown to Chaos (and Cuteness)

Chapter 360: Countdown to Chaos (and Cuteness)

[EVE]

We had returned to Frizkiel—at my family’s insistence—because they believed I should give birth in the place where I was born.

And I agreed.

Not just because it was my hometown, but because deep down, I didn’t want Cole to know I was pregnant with his child.

Not yet.

I wasn’t ready to face him. Not when my heart was still sorting through the wreckage he left behind.

"You good, waddles?" Dean grinned as I shuffled across the hallway to the bathroom for the sixth time that night.

"Say that again and I’ll waddle over your face," I muttered.

"You’d have to catch me first," he called after me, laughing.

Spoiler: I did not catch him. I ran out of breath just glaring at him.

Meanwhile, Damien had installed new nightlights along the hallway. They were motion-activated, and every time I passed, a soft glow followed me like I was the main character in some magical fairytale . . . about an exhausted, very round princess who had to pee every hour.

Dante took things to another level. He created a pregnancy spreadsheet.

Yes. A spreadsheet.

"It tracks your weight gain, food intake, heart rate, sleep schedule, hydration levels, and mood fluctuations," he explained proudly, pointing at color-coded columns like he was briefing me for a science project.

"There’s a whole section titled ’Cry Count,’" I noted, horrified.

"Strictly observational."

"Observational, my butt! You logged last Thursday’s breakdown as a ’Category 4 Emotional Outburst!’"

"To be fair," he replied, "you cried because your sandwich had too much lettuce."

"I sobbed because the lettuce betrayed me!" _{f.(r)eewe/bnov\ll.com}

He nodded solemnly. "Exactly."

And Mom? She had reached full Grandma mode. Her hobby was now bulk-buying baby clothes online at 3 AM.

I’d wake up to fifteen new packages at the door. Onesies, bibs, diapers, tiny socks I’d never seen before.

"Oh look at these," she’d coo. "Tiny booties shaped like bunnies! Bean needs them."

"Bean can’t even see his feet," I argued.

"Doesn’t matter. The booties bring joy to the soul."

By this point, even the neighbors were in on it.

Mrs. Santiago organized a baby shower with the neighborhood aunties. They played games like "Guess the Baby Food Flavor" and "Pin the Umbilical Cord," which I’m 90% sure isn’t a real game but somehow still happened.

Dean and Damien were recruited to decorate, and of course, it turned into a competition.

"I can tie a better balloon arch than you," Damien muttered, twisting a blue balloon with aggressive focus.

"Please, I invented dramatic flair," Dean shot back. "This arch will have glitter and sparkles."

"It’s a baby shower, not a disco."

"Babies love disco!"

Dante just sat in the corner with a clipboard, taking notes on how many games I was subjected to before I snapped.

(I lasted through five.)

The highlight, though, was the gift table.

Among all the adorable presents—plushies, baby kclothes, lullaby machines—was one tiny, oddly shaped box wrapped in gold paper.

It was from Dean.

I opened it cautiously.

Inside was . . . a miniature leather jacket. Black. Studded. And cool as heck.

"For Bean," Dean said with a wink. "Gotta start them early."

"I think it’s for a dog," I replied.

"Fashion has no species, Eve."

I laughed until I cried. Or maybe I was just crying again because my hormones decided so. Either way, it was perfect.

Then came the birthing class.

Oh. My. God.

Whoever decided that siblings should accompany you to birthing class should be banned from making decisions forever.

The instructor tried her best to keep things professional. But one look at my brothers and you knew that wasn’t going to last.

"Now, you may want to create a calm birthing environment," she said, demonstrating breathing techniques.

Dean raised his hand. "Can I bring a Bluetooth speaker to play relaxing whale noises?"

Damien added, "Or Beethoven. Bean might appreciate culture."

Dante asked seriously, "What’s the hospital’s policy on acupuncture mid-labor?"

I buried my face in my hands.

Later, when the instructor brought out the plastic baby and rubber pelvis for a demonstration, Dean fainted.

Just dropped to the floor like a sack of drama.

Damien caught it all on camera.

"I’m making a documentary," he said. "Working title: The Men Who Cried Uterus."

Despite the madness, the laughter, the nonstop hovering—I wouldn’t trade a second of it.

Especially not during the quiet nights.

Those nights when the house was finally asleep, and I lay in bed, one hand on my belly, feeling Bean move inside me like a little rhythm only I could hear.

Those moments were everything.

I’d whisper stories to him. Or her. I still didn’t know the gender—we all decided to keep it a surprise. Mostly because it drove Dean crazy.

"I need to know if I’m buying tiaras or tiny tuxedos!" he wailed at least once a week.

But I liked not knowing.

I liked imagining all the possibilities. A little boy with Cole’s serious eyes. A girl with my laugh. Or maybe the other way around.

Because yes, even though Cole wasn’t here . . . he was still part of this.

Sometimes, I dreamed of him holding our baby. Smiling. Saying her name—whatever it would be.

But those were dreams, and I had learned the difference between dreams and plans.

Right now, this wasn’t about him.

This was about the little life inside me. The one kicking like a soccer player at midnight. The one who already had a whole army of uncles waiting. The one who changed everything the moment I saw that faint pink line on the test.

I was terrified, sure.

Terrified of the future. Of doing it alone. Of sleepless nights and diaper disasters.

But I was also ready.

Because this little Bean had given my life a new shape. A new heartbeat. A new reason to get up each morning—even if I waddled like a confused duck.

And when the day finally came—when I’d get to hold them in my arms and whisper, You’re here, you’re real, you’re mine—I knew everything I’d gone through would be worth it.

All the cravings, the crying, the name debates, the emotional meltdowns over lettuce . . .

Every single moment led to this one.

And in that moment, surrounded by my chaotic, ridiculous, wonderful family, I’d be enough.

Me. And Bean. And my family.

And maybe that was all I ever really needed.