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She nods, sniffling. “Do you want this baby, Abel?”
I release a puff of air and with it, a broken laugh escapes. I look at the sky, the orange flecks of the sunset. I remember the things I said to her before. I remember how badly I wanted to get her pregnant, plant my baby in her. But I never thought about the baby itself. Never thought about the tiny hands, the tiny feet, an actual human being who won’t even know how to feed herself.
I imagine her now, been imagining her all night. I have a feeling it’s a girl. I want her to have Pixie’s blue eyes and her light-colored hair. I want her to have her mother’s smile, along with her penchant for reading. Maybe she can learn to like sketching, as well, like her dad. Most of all, I want her to know that her dad will do anything for her.
I’ll even move mountains for her, but I know in my heart that, what she needs the most from me is to stay away.
Looking back at Pixie, I tell her, “I won’t fuck her up.”
“What?”
“I can’t. I already love her too much to fuck this up.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I can’t have her. I can’t stay too close to her. I’m not sure if I’m better. Than before. I’m not sure if I’ll ever be better than before.”
The words are shards of glass, cutting my tongue, scraping my throat, brutalizing my chest. Even though, we’re sitting outside and the air is plenty, I can’t remember drawing a breath.
“So, you won’t watch her grow up?”
“From afar, maybe. I’m not abandoning you, Pixie. I…” I plow my hands through my hair. “I’ll be here. I’ll be around. If you need me for anything, I’ll —”
“Oh wow, that’s great.”
“Pixie —”
“You won’t know anything about her, and you’re okay with that. You’re okay with never knowing what her favorite cereal is or what her bedtime routine is, or if she likes apples or chocolates or if she hates them both. This works for you.”
Her face is sparkling with anger and I wanna kiss her furious lips. Angry Pixie used to amuse me, used to get me hard, and she still has that power. I wish I had the privilege to do something about it.
Before I can answer her, she asks me the question that steals all my resolve in one second, “You’re okay with never touching her? Or hugging her or kissing her forehead?”
I look at her stomach again as currents zap through my system. It’s like my body is fighting against myself. My hands are shaking, almost reaching out and touching Pixie’s stomach, but somehow, I’m stopping myself.
“You want to, don’t you?” She puts a palm on her stomach. “You want to feel her.”
I nod, while my lips say something else. “I can’t.”
“You can, Abel.”
“I can’t. I don’t know if I’m strong enough or capable enough to choose her. I thought I was. I thought my love for you was so big and so fucking huge that I could never hurt you. But I ended up hurting you, anyway. I ended up hurting the one person who I was supposed to cherish and protect. What’s the guarantee that I won’t do the same with our baby girl?”
Pixie reaches out and covers my joined hands with her small one. I feel a distinct throb where our skins meet. A thunder.
It sounds like heartbeats, only louder, more potent. More ferocious and significant than the thing inside my chest. I can’t stop looking at it. I can’t stop looking at where she’s touching me. After weeks, months. I’ve gotta memorize it. Memorize her soft and pale skin, how it feels like silk against mine. How even if the world was blowing up around me, I wouldn’t be able to look away from where she’s touching me.
Weeks ago, I would’ve grabbed onto her hand. I would’ve threaded our fingers together and held on tightly. Tighter than necessary because I wouldn’t have been able to control myself. Now, I only sit here without making a move. One thing I know for sure is that even if I drag her back with me, she won’t really be mine. Proximity has nothing to do with belongingness.
Then, she slides her palm between my joined hands, uncurling my fingers from each other. It’s fucking embarrassing how sweaty they are. Once my digits are free, she brings my hand closer to her body.
And before I can protest, she puts it on her stomach.
I visibly jolt. I’m touching her tummy. It’s not as flat as I thought it was. There’s a slight bump. A sign of life. A sign of my kid. Her body heat has doubled. The throb created by the touch of our hands was nothing compared to what I feel now.
