Chapter 8: The Golden Shower Surprise
The key slid into the lock with a familiar click, and Amber pushed the door open with her hip, her other arm loaded down with shopping bags from the boutique on Peachtree. Her feet throbbed. Her back ached. The baby had been kicking all day, little jabs to her ribs that made her gasp mid-conversation with clients.
Eight months pregnant and still doing nails. Keisha had told her she was crazy. Jayla had told her she was stubborn. Both of them were right.
She stepped into the townhouse and stopped dead.
"Surprise!"
The word hit her like a wave, a chorus of voices rising up from every corner of her living room. Amber dropped the shopping bags. Her hand flew to her chest. Her heart stuttered, then slammed.
Pink and gold balloons floated everywhere, tied to furniture and doorframes and the backs of chairs. Streamers hung from the ceiling in delicate spirals. A banner stretched across the far wall, glittering letters spelling out BABY GOLDEN. A three-tiered cake sat on the dining table, shaped like a stiletto—the heel curved elegantly, the toe decorated with tiny fondant flowers in shades of rose and cream.
And people. So many people.
Keisha stood near the kitchen, grinning so wide her face looked like it might split. Jayla was by the sofa, phone in hand, already recording. And behind them, a dozen women Amber had met over the past five months—clients, fellow nail techs, the barista from the coffee shop downstairs, the neighbor from 4B who always stopped to chat in the elevator.
All of them here. For her.
"What the—" Amber's voice cracked. "What is this?"
"It's a baby shower, girl." Jayla crossed the room and grabbed her hands. "What does it look like?"
"I didn't—I didn't plan—"
"That's the point of a surprise, Ambs." Keisha appeared at her other side, a glass of sparkling cider already in her hand. "You didn't plan it. We did."
Amber looked around the room again. The balloons. The cake. The women who'd become her Atlanta family, the ones who'd watched her belly grow week by week, who'd asked about the baby and the deployed fiancé and never once questioned the story she told.
Her eyes burned.
"I don't know what to say."
"Say you're happy," Jayla said. "Say you love us. Say you're gonna eat some cake."
"I'm—" Amber's voice broke. A tear slid down her cheek, then another. "I'm so happy."
The room erupted in applause. Someone turned up the music—old school R&B, the kind that made you want to sway even when your feet were swollen and your back was killing you. Keisha pressed the cider into her hand. Jayla guided her to the throne they'd set up in the corner—an actual throne, spray-painted gold, draped in pink tulle.
"Y'all did all this?" Amber sat down heavily, the cushions soft under her weight. "In one day?"
"We've been planning it for a month," Keisha admitted. "Jayla swore you didn't suspect a thing."
"I didn't. I swear I didn't."
"That's because you've been too busy growing a human to notice anything else." Jayla sat on the arm of the throne. "Now hush and let people love on you."
And they did.
For the next two hours, Amber was showered with gifts and affection. Onesies in every shade of pink and gold. Tiny shoes that made her heart clench. A diaper bag that cost more than her first car. A crib mobile shaped like a carousel, the little horses spinning in a slow circle when you wound it up.
She laughed. She cried. She ate three slices of cake and didn't apologize for any of them.
The women gathered around her, asking questions about the nursery, about the name, about whether she'd decided on a pediatrician yet. Amber answered as best she could, the lies coming easier now, smoother, like she'd been telling them her whole life instead of just five months.
Deployed overseas. Coming home when he could. A military man who loved her and wanted this baby as much as she did.
The story held up.
The story always held up.
Until it didn't.
---
"Okay, everybody." Jayla clapped her hands. "Gifts are done. Cake is eaten. Now it's time for the real reason we're all here."
Amber looked up from the present she was unwrapping—a baby monitor with a camera that connected to her phone. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, you've been holding out on us." Jayla settled onto the floor in front of the throne, crossing her legs. "We know the name. You slipped up last week when you were talking to your belly. But you haven't told the group."
"I haven't told anyone."
"You told me. And now you're gonna tell them."
The room went quiet. Every woman turned to look at Amber, their faces open and eager and full of something that felt dangerously close to love.
Amber set the baby monitor down. Her hand found her belly, the way it always did now, resting on the curve of it like she was protecting something precious.
"I was gonna wait," she said. "I was gonna tell y'all at the hospital. Or after. Or maybe never."
"Never?" Keisha raised an eyebrow. "Girl, you're having a baby. There's no 'never' anymore."
"I know." Amber took a breath. The baby kicked—a hard one, right to the ribs—and she winced. "I know."
She looked around the room. Jayla, watching her with those knowing eyes. Keisha, leaning forward like she couldn't wait another second. The neighbor from 4B, the barista, the clients who'd become friends, all of them here because they wanted to celebrate her. Because they wanted to know her. Because they'd decided, for reasons Amber still didn't fully understand, that she was worth showing up for.
"I'm naming her Golden," Amber said.
The room was silent.
"Golden?" Keisha repeated. "Like the color?"
"Like the metal. Like the word." Amber's voice was steady now, stronger than she'd expected. "Because she's the most precious thing I've ever made. Because she's worth more than anything I've ever owned, anything I've ever wanted." She paused. Swallowed. "And because her daddy called me his gold once, a long time ago. Before everything. Before I ran."
The silence stretched for one heartbeat. Two.
Then Jayla started clapping.
The others joined in, the applause swelling, filling the room. Someone cheered. Someone else wiped their eyes. Keisha was nodding, her lips pressed together like she was trying not to cry.
"Golden," she said. "That's beautiful, Ambs. That's really beautiful."
"It's perfect," the neighbor from 4B added. "She's gonna be perfect."
Amber smiled. Let the tears come. Let herself feel it—the love, the joy, the terrifying weight of bringing a life into this world and naming her after a man she couldn't call.
Jayla caught her eye across the room.
She didn't say anything. She didn't have to.
Her expression said it all: I know who you're thinking about. I know why you picked that name. I know, and I'm not going to make you say it out loud.
Amber nodded, just barely. A silent thank you.
The music started up again. Someone broke out the dancing. Keisha did a ridiculous shimmy that made everyone laugh. The barista from downstairs started telling a story about her own pregnancy, the one she'd never finished because the baby came early and the rest was a blur.
Amber sat in her throne and watched it all.
She thought about Kash.
Not the way he was now—dangerous, distant, a man she'd left behind in a city she'd never see again. She thought about the way he'd been before. The way he'd held her after long days at the salon. The way he'd kiss her neck while she was doing her makeup, making her mess up her eyeliner. The way he'd whisper "my gold" against her skin when they made love, the words so soft she sometimes wondered if she'd imagined them.
She hadn't imagined them.
She'd never imagined any of it.
And now she was naming his daughter after the way he used to love her.
The party wound down around ten. The women trickled out in twos and threes, each one hugging Amber goodbye, each one telling her to call if she needed anything. Keisha was the last to leave, standing in the doorway with her purse over her shoulder.
"You good?"
"I'm good."
"You need anything? A ride somewhere? A snack? A foot rub?"
Amber laughed. "I'm fine, Keisha. Go home."
"You call me if anything happens, you hear? Even if it's nothing. Even if you just need somebody to sit with you."
"I will."
Keisha nodded. Then she pulled Amber into a hug. "Golden's gonna be lucky to have you."
"I'm gonna be lucky to have her."
The door closed. The lock clicked.
Amber stood in the living room, surrounded by the remnants of the party—balloons drifting lazily, ribbons trailing across the floor, the stiletto cake reduced to a single heel that no one had dared to eat. The chandelier glittered overhead, casting soft light across the pink and gold chaos.
She should clean up.
She should unpack the gifts, organize the nursery, fold the tiny onesies into neat little squares.
Instead, she walked down the hall to the nursery.
The room was ready. Crib assembled. Curtains hung. Mobile spinning slowly, the carousel horses rising and falling with a gentle creak. The walls were painted a soft peach, not pink, not gold—something in between, something that belonged only to Golden.
Amber crossed to the glider and sat down. The cushions held her weight, rocking gently. Her belly pressed against her thighs, heavy and round. The baby kicked again, softer this time, like she was settling in for the night.
"Golden," Amber whispered.
The name hung in the air, fragile and beautiful.
"Golden."
She said it again. Again. Each time it felt more real, more solid, more like something she could hold onto.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out and looked at the screen.
No new messages. No missed calls.
Just the same burner number she'd saved five months ago. The one she'd never deleted. The one she'd never called.
She stared at it. Her thumb hovered over the name.
Kash.
One tap and she'd hear his voice. One word and she'd tell him everything—the baby, the name, the lie she'd built to protect herself. One second of courage and everything would change.
She didn't press it.
But she didn't delete it either.
---
The flight from Madrid landed in Atlanta at 6:47 AM.
Kash stepped off the plane with a single duffel bag and the kind of jet lag that made everything feel hazy and unreal. He'd been traveling for eighteen hours. He'd slept maybe two of them. But he wasn't tired. He was wired—sharp, focused, alive in a way he hadn't felt in months.
The airport was quiet this early. Businessmen and tourists shuffled through baggage claim with the same hollow-eyed expression. Kash passed them all, his boots echoing on the tile, his eyes scanning the crowd like he was expecting trouble.
He wasn't. Not here.
Not yet.
A black sedan waited for him at the curb. He slid into the backseat without a word. The driver—a man he'd known for years, a man who'd driven him through rain and blood and everything in between—pulled away from the terminal without asking where he wanted to go.
They both knew.
The address in Atlanta. The townhouse on the hill. The woman who'd run from him and taken his heart with her.
Kash stared out the window as the city rose up to meet him. Peachtree Street. The glittering skyline. The magnolia trees heavy with blooms.
He didn't know Amber was here.
He'd spent five months looking for her, tracking her through contacts and credit cards and the faint electronic trail she'd left behind. She was good. She was careful. But nobody was invisible forever.
And now he was here.
The car pulled up to a stoplight. He could see it—just barely, through the trees—the townhouse where she lived. The lights were off. She was probably asleep. Probably dreaming about their daughter, the one she thought he didn't know about.
He knew.
He'd known for months.
He'd known the moment he saw the sonogram printout in a photo Jayla posted on Instagram—blurry in the background, but clear enough. Clear enough for him to zoom in. Clear enough for him to see the date. Clear enough for him to count back and realize that baby was his.
He'd known, and he'd waited, and he'd given her space.
But space had a limit.
The light turned green. The car rolled forward. Kash kept his eyes on the townhouse until it disappeared from view.
"Where to?" the driver asked.
"A hotel. Any hotel. I need to sleep."
The driver nodded. Turned the wheel. Headed for downtown.
Kash closed his eyes.
He wasn't going to force his way in. He wasn't going to bang on her door at three in the morning or demand she explain why she'd left him. Amber was stubborn. Amber was proud. Amber would run again if he pushed too hard.
So he'd wait.
He'd wait until she was ready. He'd wait until she called. He'd wait until the baby was born and she realized she couldn't do it alone and she needed someone—anyone—who loves her.
He'd wait.
Because she was his gold.
And gold didn't tarnish.
Gold didn't fade.
Gold was worth waiting for.
The hotel room was beige and anonymous, the kind of place where businessmen fucked their mistresses and politicians hid from scandals. Kash lay on the bed with his boots still on, staring at the ceiling, his phone balanced on his chest. He hadn't slept. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her.
Amber. His gold.
She was eight months pregnant now. He'd done the math a hundred times, recalculated it a hundred more, and the answer never changed. The baby was his. Conceived in those last few weeks before she'd disappeared, before she'd cut off every number he had, before she'd packed up her life and vanished like smoke.
He'd traced her to Atlanta three months ago.
He'd been watching ever since.
Not close. Not close enough to scare her. Just enough to know she was safe, that she was working, that she was building something new. He'd seen her waddle into the salon every morning. He'd seen Jayla move in with her. He'd seen the way she touched her belly when she thought no one was looking, the way her face softened into something private and fierce.
She was going to be a mother.
She was going to be the best goddamn mother he'd ever known.
And she was doing it without him.
---
The days blurred together after the baby shower.
Amber woke before dawn on Monday, her body heavy and aching, her bladder screaming. She peed, drank a glass of water, and then stood in the kitchen staring at the mess she hadn't cleaned up. Balloons sagged against the walls. Ribbons trailed across the floor like the remnants of a parade. The stiletto cake had collapsed into a pile of pink frosting and sponge.
She should clean.
She should rest.
She should do a lot of things.
Instead, she walked to the nursery and stood in the doorway. The crib was still in its box, leaning against the wall where Jayla had left it. The dresser was half-assembled, instructions scattered across the floor. The curtains she'd ordered three weeks ago were still in their plastic wrap.
Amber looked at her hands. The acrylics were chipped. The cuticles were ragged. She hadn't had a manicure in two weeks—couldn't stand the smell of the chemicals, couldn't sit still long enough to let anyone touch her.
But she could do this.
She could build a crib.
She could hang curtains.
She could make this room ready for Golden.
---
The tools were in the bottom drawer of the kitchen junk drawer, buried under takeout menus and expired coupons. Amber pulled out a screwdriver, a hammer, and a small Allen wrench that came with the crib kit. She carried them to the nursery like they were weapons, like she was going into battle.
The instructions were in Chinese, English, and Spanish. She read the English version three times and still didn't understand it.
"Fuck it," she muttered. "I'll figure it out."
She unpacked the crib pieces one by one. Headboard. Footboard. Side rails. Mattress support. A bag of screws and bolts that looked like it contained enough hardware to build a small bridge. She laid everything out on the floor in what she hoped was the right order.
Then she started screwing.
The first bolt went in crooked. She cussed, backed it out, tried again. The second one stripped the wood. She cussed louder, threw the screwdriver across the room, and sat down on the floor with her back against the wall.
Her belly pressed against her thighs. The baby kicked—hard, like she was protesting the chaos.
"I know, baby. I know." Amber rubbed her stomach in slow circles. "Mama's trying."
She closed her eyes. Breathed. Counted to ten.
Then she picked up the screwdriver and tried again.
---
By noon, the crib was half-assembled. By two, it was three-quarters done. By four, when Jayla came home from work, Amber was sitting in the middle of the nursery surrounded by packing foam and plastic wrap, the crib finally standing upright against the wall.
"What the hell?" Jayla dropped her purse and rushed into the room. "Amber, you're supposed to be resting."
"I'm nesting."
"You're eight months pregnant. You're supposed to be on the couch with your feet up, watching trash TV, eating bonbons or some shit."
"I don't have bonbons." Amber looked at the crib. It was slightly crooked. One of the legs was a little wobbly. But it was standing. "I have a crib."
Jayla stared at her. Then she burst out laughing.
"You're insane. You know that?"
"I know."
"You're absolutely, certifiably insane."
"I know that too."
Jayla crouched down beside her. Her face softened. "You okay?"
"I'm fine."
"You're lying."
"I'm fine," Amber repeated. "I just... I need to get this done. I need to make sure everything's ready. In case she comes early."
"In case she comes early? Girl, you got four weeks."
"I know."
"Then why the rush?"
Amber didn't answer. She couldn't. Because the truth was, she didn't know why the rush. She just knew that if she stopped moving, she might start thinking. And if she started thinking, she might start crying. And if she started crying, she might never stop.
Jayla seemed to understand. She stood up and offered Amber a hand.
"Come on. Let's get you off this floor before you can't get up."
Amber took her hand. Let herself be pulled to her feet. Her back screamed. Her knees popped. The baby kicked again, a rhythmic thumping against her ribs.
"See?" Jayla said. "She's mad at you."
"She's a drama queen. She gets it from her daddy."
The words slipped out before Amber could stop them. She froze. Jayla froze.
"What?" Jayla asked quietly.
"Nothing. Forget it."
"Amber."
"I said forget it."
Jayla didn't push. She just led Amber to the glider and eased her into it. Then she left the room and came back with a glass of water and a granola bar.
"Eat," she said. "Drink. Then nap."
"I'm not tired."
"You're about to pass out. I can see it in your face."
Amber wanted to argue. She really did. But the moment she leaned back in the glider, the exhaustion hit her like a wave. The glass of water tilted in her hand. The granola bar slipped from her fingers.
Jayla caught the glass before it spilled. Set it on the side table. Pulled a blanket over Amber's legs.
"Sleep," she said. "I'll finish the nursery."
"Don't touch the mobile."
"I won't touch the mobile."
"Or the onesies. They're organized by size."
"I know. You told me. Three times."
"Don't—"
"Amber. Sleep."
Amber closed her eyes.
And for the first time in days, she actually slept.
---
She dreamed of Kash.
Not the way he was now. Not the dangerous version who'd built an empire out of fear and violence. She dreamed of the way he'd been in the early days, before the money, before the power, before the weight of his choices had turned his smile into something she had to search for.
They were in a hotel room. In Charlotte. The first one he'd ever brought her to, before the penthouse, before the luxury. It had been cheap and anonymous, the walls the color of old mustard, the bedspread faded from too many washes.
Kash had kissed her against the door before she could catch her breath. His hands on her waist, her hips, her ass. His mouth hot and hungry on her neck, her collarbone, the swell of her breasts above her dress.
"Baby," she'd gasped. "Baby, wait—"
"Can't wait."
"Kash—"
He'd lifted her like she weighed nothing. Carried her to the bed. Laid her down with a gentleness that didn't match the fire in his eyes.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he'd said. "You know that? Every time I look at you, I forget my own name."
She'd reached for him, pulled him down on top of her. He was heavy and warm and hard in all the right places, and when he kissed her again, she felt it in her toes, her fingertips, the pit of her stomach.
He undressed her slowly. Deliberately. Like he had all the time in the world and nothing to do but worship her. He peeled her dress down over her hips, unhooked her bra with one hand, kissed his way down her stomach.
"Mmm." He nuzzled the soft skin below her navel. "Every inch of you."
"Stop teasing."
"I'm not teasing. I'm savoring."
"Kash."
"Say it again."
"Kash."
"Again."
She'd laughed. It was giddy and breathless and she'd felt happy—truly happy—in a way she hadn't felt before or since.
He'd pulled her panties down with his teeth. Literally. Bit the lace fabric and dragged it over her hips, her thighs, her ankles. Then he'd settled between her legs like a man ready to spend the rest of his life there.
His tongue found her clit with a precision born from familiarity. He knew what she liked. Knew how to circle that bundle of nerves until she was gasping. Knew how to slide two fingers inside her, curl them up against that spot that made her see stars.
"Fuck," she'd whispered. "Oh, fuck, Kash—"
"Keep saying my name."
"Kash. Kash. Kash."
He'd worked her with his fingers and his tongue until she came hard, her thighs clamping around his head, her hands fisted in the cheap hotel sheets. And when she was still trembling, still boneless, still gasping for air, he'd climbed up her body and pushed inside her.
"Look at me," he said.
She opened her eyes.
He was staring at her like she was the only thing in the world. Like the sun rose and set on her. Like she was made of gold and he was terrified someone would steal her away.
"I love you," he said.
"I love you too."
He pulled out and thrust back in. Slow and deep. The kind of lovemaking that made you feel every single inch, every single nerve ending, every single beat of your heart.
"Tell me again."
"I love you."
He kissed her forehead. Her eyelids. The corners of her mouth.
"Again."
"I love you, Kash."
They'd moved together like that for a long time. Slow and steady and so intimate that Amber felt herself start to cry. Not from sadness. Not from pain. From the sheer overwhelming reality of being wanted that way. Of being seen.
He came with her name on his lips. Buried his face in her neck and whispered things she couldn't hear, and when he finally pulled back to look at her, there were tears in his eyes too.
"You're my gold," he said. "You know that? My fucking gold."
She'd touched his face. His jaw. The scar above his eyebrow.
"You're mine too," she'd whispered. "Even if you don't think you deserve to be."
He'd kissed her then. Long and slow and sweet. And they'd fallen asleep wrapped around each other, the cheap hotel room fading into darkness, the world outside disappearing into nothing.
---
Amber woke with tears on her cheeks.
The glider rocked gently beneath her. The nursery was quiet. The mobile spun in a slow circle—Jayla must have wound it up—and the little carousel horses rose and fell in the soft light of the afternoon sun.
She touched her face. Her fingers came away wet.
She looked at her phone. The burner number was still there. Still saved. Still silently waiting for her to do something.
The baby kicked.
Amber pressed her hand to her belly.
"She's coming," she whispered. "She's coming soon, and I don't know if I can do this alone."
The room didn't answer. The phone didn't answer. Only the mobile kept spinning, the horses going round and round, like they were racing toward something neither of them could see.
---
The nesting didn't stop.
Over the next week, Amber cleaned the townhouse from top to bottom. She scrubbed baseboards. She organized closets. She alphabetized the spices in the kitchen. She folded Golden's onesies by color and then by size and then by color again when she decided the first organization wasn't right.
She bought a bassinet for her bedroom. A white noise machine. A diaper pail that claimed to trap odors with some kind of patented technology she didn't understand but trusted anyway.
She assembled a dresser. A changing table. A bookshelf.
She lined the shelves with books she'd loved as a child—Goodnight Moon, The Very Hungry Caterpillar, the little board books with the crinkly pages and the mirror at the end. Her mother had read those to her, back before she'd gone, back when Amber was small enough to fit in the crook of an arm.
She hung curtains. She laid a rug. She put up a wall decal of a tree with flowers blooming from its branches, each petal placed by hand.
By the end of the week, the nursery was done.
Amber stood in the doorway and looked at it. The crib with its clean white sheets. The mobile spinning slowly. The shelf full of books and stuffed animals and the little golden bear that sat in the middle of it all, like the guardian of the room.
It was perfect.
It was ready.
She was ready.
Almost.