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Leaving them, I back towards the bedroom. My chest tightens as I close the door behind me and search the dimly lit space for Christopher.
There’s an air of uncertainty around him as he lies on the bed. Arms at his side, eyes on the ceiling, he lies there quietly. His body is tense despite being sunk into the plush bedding. Without saying anything, I wander over to him, my body sinking beside his in the quietness. Our pinkies brush before his hand swallows mine.
With it cradling mine, all I can think of is the photo on his phone. The way his hands hugged our daughter. So protective. So caring…
“What do you think she’d sound like?”
“In my dreams she always sounds like you,” he replies softly.
Tears bruise my chest and my eyes, clogging the back of my throat. I keep waiting for the pain to obliterate me, but it never does. I’m overwhelmed by wonder and awe at his statement. The wistfulness of his words and softness of his gravelly voice wrap around me like a warm blanket.
“She has your hair and your smile. Your soft nature and your fierce heart.” Taking a deep breath, he threads our fingers together. “She has your contagious laugh, and you always have her curls bunched into pigtails right behind her ears with the silly bows you have in all your baby pictures. You put her in anything but pink, because Barbies are—”
“Stupid.” A wet laugh bursts from inside me. “Barbies are stupid.”
“They are.” A chuckle vibrates his body beside me. “She’s stubborn like you.”
“I’m not stubborn.”
He turns his head and looks at me, and I feel the heat of his gaze on my skin. The flutters in my belly have my hand curling tighter around his.
“As an ox.”
The sudden release of his hand as he stands flounders the lightness of the moment. Panic whirs in the pit of my stomach as he walks away from me. My mistake haunts me in his actions. It’s pathetic, but that’s my punishment for leaving him.
Darkness engulfs the room, and as the sound of his movements and his shadow get closer, so do the clunk of his shoes and the ripples of his clothes dropping to the floor.
The bed dips and instead of lying where he was before, he parts my legs and slots himself between them with his head on my belly. His hands bracketing either side of my chest, he nuzzles my flesh. It’s so different from the last time we were like this.
My belly was full then, and our little girl would kick at his weight and the sound of his voice. He’d poke her and she’d poke back.
Resting my hands on his crown, I brush through his thick hair. When I close my eyes, I relish the feel of the coarse strands. And all I can imagine is a little girl with his thick, dark hair and my messy curls. I can feel the warmth of her smile as her light honeyed eyes shine for me.
Her skin is fairer than mine, like her daddy’s, but it has the same olive undertone as mine.
Her smile is easy, and I can’t contain my own.
We made her. She’s the perfect melange of the two of us.
Peace and pride fill my heart, and a thought strikes me.
“She needs a name.”
Pressing his face deeper into my tummy, he remains silent.
“She was here. She was real. She deserves a name.”
Nodding, he slips a hand beneath the shirt and strokes my belly. His fingertips find the fuzzy silk of my scars, and without a single word, he traces them like they are a Braille story he’s trying to decipher.
He traces my flaws like he’s writing a love letter. And slipping my hands to his back, I do the same.
I love you, cariño.
I love you so, so much.
I script my endless love for him in light, feathery strokes as I smile to the image of our little girl.
“Carina.” Because she is beloved and pure. She is the dearest thing to ever be.
