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“I can’t take all the credit,” he admits. “I did send Jada to track the pumpkins down. But it’s the thought that counts, right?”
I guess I wouldn’t know. I haven’t been allowing myself too many thoughts lately. So I nod and offer him a half-smile before he looks away with a hint of disappointment in his expression.
He’s murmuring to the babies about how proud he is of their big-girl appetites when he catches me staring at him a few minutes later. “You’d better stop looking at me like that, Agnes,” he says quietly, his voice deep. “You’re making Reese’s sexy again.”
“Okay, Daddy,” I reply in an unexpectedly sultry tone.
He smirks and winks at me this time, and my stomach dips again.
I rock my chair in sync with the beeping monitors, and Blake and I spend the next few hours in the same routine—feeding, changing, and snuggling. We’re rewarded with squeaky grunts, newborn scrunches, finger squeezes, big stretches, and short glimpses of their tiny blue eyes peering back at us. And it feels like we’re holding the pieces of my heart outside of my chest.
“It’s probably time to go home and get some rest, Mama,” Dana, one of the older nurses tells me after a while. “You need sleep and real food. With both the princess and the queen getting their fill today, I wouldn’t be surprised if your supply ramps up in a day or two. You’ll want to hydrate too. I expect to see you come in with one of those super-tall, insulated cups tomorrow.”
“I’ve been telling her she’s not drinking enough water,” Blake tattles.
I roll my eyes at both of them. “I’m trying, people. But it’s not easy balancing coming back from the dead with tandem nursing.”
“Hey, I’m just kidding, babe. You’re doing an amazing job,” he says more softly, lifting my left hand to place a kiss over the ring I’ve been wearing but whose significance we haven’t found the time or energy to discuss since he slipped it on a couple of weeks ago.
“Listen to your husband,” Dana says. “And take care of yourself,cher.”
I glance over to catch the fake smile he flashes her. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure she brings her big cup tomorrow, Mrs. Dana. And she’ll actually have water in it this time, not coffee.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “For the record, you’ve been the one supplying all of my coffee,hubby.”
His smile fades as he drops my hand. “I guess I still can’t say no to you.”
I huff before I turn to kiss the girls goodnight, trying to disguise my sniffles. Those darn postpartum hormones must be flaring up again.
Blake and I are both silent as we leave the hospital and drive home. I don’t miss the way he gazes longingly at his truck in the garage. He’s been taxiing me around in Shadowfax until I get cleared to drive myself, and I can barely walk, much less climb into his lifted truck in my current state.
As soon as we make it inside, he goes straight into the kitchen to warm some of the leftovers that Mrs. T has been stocking in our fridge. Then I hear him start a load of laundry before he puts my sanitized breast pump back together and brings my supper to me in the living room.
I frown as he sighs over his plate of chicken and sausagesauce piquante. It doesn’t take me long to inhale mine, yet he’s barely touched his plate of rice by the time he gets up to tend to the dishes.
“I’m going to take a shower,” I announce, and he darts back into the living room.
“Do you need my help?” he asks, a mixture of exhaustion and concern lining his face. And those aren’t exactly the emotions one would hope to elicit when she mentions getting undressed in front of her fiancé.
“I think I’ll be fine, thanks. I’ll leave the door open and call for you if I do.”
“I’ll be in right behind you.” He goes off to finish his chores.
I allow myself a good five minutes of sobbing in the shower before I hear the bathroom door opening. By the time I step out and wrap a towel around myself, Blake’s already there, waiting for his turn. He doesn’t seem to notice the way my eyes are glued to him while he undresses.
Then I look down at my Frankensteined stomach and the rest of my postpartum body. And my eyes start to sting again.
I swipe at my cheeks, reminding myself that tears are the least of my worries as I add padding to all of my undergarments, since I seem to be leaking from every nook and cranny these days. I try not to stare at the immaculate specimen in front of me when he steps into the spray to rinse himself, but another sob threatens to bubble up when he turns off the water and leans back against the shower wall with his eyes closed, as if he can’t go on anymore.
I cover my mouth and scamper out of the bathroom before he can catch me crying over ruining his life.
A few minutes later, Blake joins me on the couch, plopping down beside me and pulling out his phone while I set up for another pumping session.
Dammit, can’t a woman get any privacy these days? Don’t I deserve to bawl my eyes out until I start to hyperventilate in peace?
I watch as he scrolls down his TikTok feed, stopping to chuckle at a video with a baby giggling at a puppy, suspiciously skipping over one about married life, watching the next clip about being a girl-dad, and landing on a list of tips for “boosting your milk supply.”
And even though I still want to be alone, I’m also grateful he’s sitting next to me, because I’d started missing him already. It’s like I’m desperate for him to wrap me up in a hug but simultaneously loathe the idea of being touched right now. These hormones really are the worst.
