“And happy.” Her voice cracks. “I’m really happy.”
My composure finally gives out.
I laugh again, and this time the sound turns into something dangerously close to a sob. I release one of her hands and wipe my palm over my face.
“I’m so fucking happy.”
A tear spills down her cheek.
My eyes drop to her stomach. There’s no visible change beneath the soft gray sweater, yet everything is different. Our child. A person made from us is in there, real and impossibly fragile.
My hand aches to feel that reality. “Can I touch you?”
Her lips part. Then she nods. “Yes.”
I step closer and place my palm low on her stomach. The warmth of her body reaches me through the fabric.
Elena covers my hand with hers.
I’ve imagined fatherhood in abstract pieces. A small, clumsy hand curled around my finger. The sound of running feet on a wood floor. A home filled with the chaos of living instead of a space I just professionally maintain.
I never let the images cohere, because the life holding them together always depended on someone choosing me.
Now Elena is here, solid and real, with our baby beneath my hand.
“I’m scared,” I admit.
“So am I.”
“Good. I was concerned my panic was unprofessional.”
A wet laugh slips from her.
I move my thumb once over her sweater, then keep my hand still. “You never have to carry news like this alone again.”
“I didn’t know what you’d say.”
“You start with the truth. I may panic, swear, ask too many questions, and bring an inappropriate number of notebooks, but you tell me.”
“So the notebooks are non-negotiable, I take it.”
“They’re not.”
Her fingers tighten over mine. “Okay.”
I bend and kiss her forehead. When she leans into me, I wrap my free arm around her and hold her.
For several breaths, neither of us speaks.
Then she presses her face into my chest and starts crying.
I hold her tighter.
“I’ve got you.” My voice is rough against her hair. “As long as you want me to.”
“I do.”
Those two words strip away the last of my restraint. I close my eyes and hold her until her breathing steadies.