Author's Note:

So, it's kind of a short, filler-type chapter. I know that a lot of you are ready for the 'happy ever after' immediately, but I kind of hate doing that immediately. It's not logical to me that they would get engaged immediately after she moved. However, I wanted to give you a little taste – little snippets – of their life that they're building together.

I've got some other comments that I'll save until after you read…

As always, I'm honored and amazed at all of your feedback. On other stories that I've written, I get a lot of 'update soon's and that's all. I really appreciate you all taking the time to tell me what you loved and what's frustrating you and how, maybe, some of these ideas are continuing to swim around in your brain after you're finished reading. You all rock my world. Seriously.

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"Turn left here."

"Where in God's name are we going?"

"You'll see. Now, go four blocks and turn left again."

"Okay."

"Troy, you're missing it."

"You said four blocks! We've gone two."

"Okay, well, maybe I meant two."

"Well, now I've got to turn around."

"Okay, now turn right."

"Into this apartment complex?"

"Yeah."

"The one called Sunshine Meadows? Seriously?"

"Troy, I don't give a damn what it's called. Take the second right and the park there in front of the first building."

"Okay. Now what are we doing here?"

"Follow me, I've got something to show you."

"Shar, why are we breaking into a stranger's apartment?"

"We're not breaking in, I have a key."

"Well, that still doesn't answer my question."

"What question?"

"What are we doing in this apartment?"

"It's mine."

"What?"

"It's my apartment. It's where I live. I wanted to show it to you."

"It's your apartment?"

"That's what I said."

"It's where you live."

"Uh huh."

"You live four and a half blocks from me."

"Is that too far?"

"Four and a half blocks."

"I figured it was closer than Nairobi."

"Um, yeah."

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Seriously, she lives here. In America.

I'm telling you, I don't think that I'll ever fully recover from the moment where she looked at me and told me that I had been right and staying in Kenya was running and she chose me.

She chose me.

Does that possibly mean that she's ready to move as fast as I am?

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"Where does this box go?"

"In the kitchen."

"Even though it's full of underwear?"

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Tomorrow, I'm supposed to walk into a room full of 10th grade students and tell them all about the horrors of the world. I'm going to try to translate my life and my passions into somewhat student saavy terms and I'm determined not to get angry if they don't care.

Of course, I say that, and I know that if they snigger or if they don't cry then I will be a mess. Troy tells me that he'll be at my apartment with Disney movies and take-out Chinese food. And possibly a few bottles of wine.

In the month or so that I've been living here, I feel like I've gotten all of my questions answered. Can I survive in America? (Answer: some days better than others.) Can I see myself growing old with Troy? (Answer: absolutely.) Is it possible to truly live well without using my passport on a daily basis? (Answer: some days better than others.)

I suppose that it should truly say something deep to me that on the days that I am the most tempted to run the hell back to Nairobi or Kigali or India or Belfast or … as quickly as possible, it is Troy that keeps me here. Even on the days that he's the reason I want to run. Seriously. Is it really that hard remember to put the damn toilet seat down when you're at my house? Seriously?

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"How'd the first day go?"

"I had a fourteen year old boy ask me how many Africans I slept with."

"So, fabulous?"

"Beyond words."

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"Troy! She's what, eight months?"

"Yeah."

"And her water broke?"

"That's what Andrew said on the phone."

"Are they ready for this?"

"You mean is Gabi ready to push a living being out of her vajayjay? I believe no."

"No, asshole, I meant parenthood."

"Well, doesn't the pushing come before the parenthood?"

"I hate you."

"No, Sharpay, you're in love with me."

"They're not mutually exclusive emotions, Bolton."

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We've been in the waiting room for, like, nineteen million hours. As I say so to Sharpay, she rolls her eyes and responds, "Maybe her vajayjay isn't being flexible enough."

Every time I complain that fourteen hours seems a little long to sit in a waiting room waiting for the miracle of life to get on with it, I get a withering glance. We've been in and out of the delivery room a few times, but at this present moment, Gabi's napping and Andrew is talking to doctor type people.

Gabi's water broke three and a half weeks early, so to say that the Morales' were a little unprepared for this arrival is a bit of an understatement. As soon as we had arrived at the hospital and realized that this was not going to be a short journey, Sharpay and I had gone back to their house to asses the nursery situation. Which is also how I spent my morning at Babies-R-Us, listening to Shar coo over outfits and such things.

It's also where I finally got up the nerve to ask if she wanted kids.

"Yeah, I mean, someday. Don't you?"

I paused, and fiddled with the swaddling blanket I had in my hand. "Yeah, someday."

"What's that in your voice?"

"What?"

"You sound like we're answering two different questions. Like I'm talking about children and you're determining if I'm worthy to bear your children. Troy, I promise, I think my womb will be very hospitable."

I chuckled and swallowed all at the same time, which made for a very awkward noise, by the way. "You are absolutely worthy to bear my children."

"Damn straight."

Damn it, if I'm going to do this in the baby superstore of America….

I reached her hands and looked straight into her eyes. "I just, I mean, it's a major question."

"I know, baby," she whispered.

"And we've never talked about it before."

"No, we haven't."

"I feel like this is a major moment. I'm standing here in the most awkward place possible, declaring that I want to have children with you."

I could hear her breath catch, "Is that what you're declaring?"

I nodded.

She was silent for a moment, before leaning in to kiss me. We stood there for a few moments, before she placed my hand on her stomach. "Can you really imagine it with me?"

I nodded and kissed her again.

Somehow, we had resumed our shopping for our yet-to-be-named nephew and made our way back to the hospital.

I haven't really started breathing again.

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"Gabi, we're going to need you to really push on this one."

"DO YOU THINK I'VE JUST BEEN ON FRIGGIN VACATION? WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK I'VE BEEN DOING?"

"Baby, you're doing such a great job."

"Holy hell, I cannot believe this is happening."

"I cannot believe that it is under these circumstances that I'm seeing my high school girlfriend's vagina."

"TROY BOLTON, I CAN STILL CASTRATE YOU IF I WANT."

"Damn, she heard that."

"Gabi, seriously, on this next contraction, I am going to need you to push your son out because he is ready."

"Here he comes, love! We can see his head!"

"Troy, I really don't want you looking at her vagina."

"Andrew, I am actually looking at your son. Calm down."

"ANDREW!"

"Troy."

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH HOLY HELL HOLY FUCKING HELL HOLY AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH"

"He's out! Gabi, he's out!"

"It's about fucking time."

"WWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH"

"Seriously. He's breathing and crying and alive."

"Orville."

"Not Orville."

"Always Orville."

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About three minutes after he emerged from Gabi's womb, my nephew and godson was placed in my arms. Nathanial Jose Orville Morales. 5 pounds and 9 ounces, 17 inches long. A little on the small side, but that's to be expected when the baby's early.

I say that as though I had any idea about any of that before Sharpay explained it to me. I seriously don't know what I'd do without that woman.

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Author Note:

Yes, I know that I didn't label all of the dialogue. However, I think I put enough context clues in there for you to figure out who was talking when. If not and I confused you, I'm sorry.

Also, the delivery room scene was meant to be a mess. I wanted all four (and five, if you count the doctor that I know would be in there and talking to her) of their voices to be a mess, because delivery rooms are intense and not well organized dialogue.