Corey glanced at me several times before speaking, his voice low.
"Babe, you've been working hard. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have blown up like that..."
He knew perfectly well why we'd gotten married. We'd done it for Noah.
Corey had spent the first twenty years of his life in a band—never earning much, but living free. I was an investment manager at a securities firm, surrounded by money every day. If it hadn't been for that one drunken night when we crossed a line, neither of us would have given the other a second look.
Two weeks later, I showed up at his door with the ultrasound results and laid it all on the table.
Maybe it was because I looked so uncharacteristically vulnerable that day. He stared at me for a long time, then suddenly pulled me into his arms.
"Caroline, let's get married."
For a while after that, he stopped going to band practice. He came with me to every prenatal appointment, cooked meals tailored to my pregnancy cravings. The day I gave birth, he cried louder than I did, and even through the tears, he didn't forget to hold me.