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When I get back to the fountain, I think of kneeling down right then, but there are people all around. Every time we’re out, I see Finley glancing around with this look of what I think is disbelief. So we go home.
There, we eat pizza, which she’s gone full-on, frat-boy crazy for. She feeds mine to me with a fork, but I don’t mind. In two more weeks, both of the slings can come off a lot more fre
quently. I think in three or four weeks, I’ll be able to fuck her like I want to.
That night, we start on the Harry Potter movies. As we’re heading to bed, Finley spots our deer couple outside again. We watch them for a long time, and I think about the ring inside my pocket. Maybe this is a good time. But I don’t do it. I don’t know…maybe I’m nervous.
We climb into bed, and Siren blows me long and hard.
“I don’t think I am pregnant, in fact,” she says after I come. “I hope you’re not too disappointed.”
“Only because I can’t ditch the condom.” I laugh. “Come here…I want to taste that pussy.”
She smiles slyly. “I want to feel you in me.”
“What does it feel like?” I’m trying to head her toward some dirty talk, but Finley rolls the condom onto me and looks up with a smile. “It feels like I’m yours.”
Earlier, as we rode home, I asked the universe to send me a sign. Something. Anything—to let me know what I should do. If it’s too soon. If it’s too much right now.
It feels like I’m yours. I replay her words in my head all night. They seem like as good a sign as any.
Twenty-Three
Finley
If you had told me years ago that my Prince Declan would take me deep into a magic forest on a warm, radiant day, and he would kneel before me in a grove while our pet lamb frolicked nearby…or that a gentle breeze would ruffle his dark hair, and overhead, the sky would match the blue of his eyes…I’d have said you were spinning fairy tales. And fairy tales are not for people like me.
It’s late August now. I’ve learned how to work the high-tech kiln; I’ve made three pieces. If Declan holds his arms still, he can knit, and as it turns out, knitting is his favorite takeaway from island life. He says it quiets his mind. I’ve three scarves now, and Kayti has a baby blanket.
He’s started PT four times weekly—two appointments per week for each shoulder, poor Sailor—and while he’s doing that, I speak with Rachel or attend a yoga class. I tried pilates, but I’ve found yoga to be more my speed—which is to say, quite leisurely.
We spoke with Rachel together a few times, though all that entailed was Declan trying to wink-wink with her about subjects she’s unclear on, such as urging her to urge me to tell him if I’m unhappy. Which I’m not. After two sessions of such madness, Rachel said she’d like to see Declan alone, as she’s seeing me. So we’re each seeing her privately now.
“I don’t know what I’ll tell her,” he said as he grilled me my first steak. Flipping the steaks is actually helpful for his PT, so there we stood beside the cabin in the cooling evening air.
“Oh, well how would you? You’ve had the perfect life with absolutely nothing awry. You feel lovely at all times, and never scared or sad or worried. Surely nothing from the past could linger in your heart. Let us hope you’re good at spinning tales.”
That made him laugh. The truth is, though, he’s doing terribly well. His father has visited us three times now, and he likes that. A few days past, some of his teammates visited, and though they were shocked to meet Baby and me and hear what happened, they were all lovely. And he obviously cares for them as well.
He never speaks of what he’ll do if his right shoulder doesn’t return to its former power, so I’m not sure. He rides the stationary bike each day as if he’s trying to “get fit,” as people here say, and I do as well. We say we’re preparing for a race, although I hope that isn’t true.
Each morning, we spend nearly an hour in bed—often longer. Afterward, we lie and listen to the birds chirp through our open window, with its lovely screen that keeps the bugs out. In the evenings, he holds me just a bit, being careful what position, and I think that helps him feel…more abled.
This morning, he woke me and suggested we take Baby for a hike. And over time, via a winding trail, he brought us here, to this bright grove that overlooks the river. He kneels down to pet Baby, and I watch him reach into his pocket for an apple.
But it’s not an apple.
I gape down at what he’s holding till my eyes well, and it’s blurry. Blue and sparkling and blurry.
Declan’s eyes are warm on mine. He smiles softly, revealing dimples. “I don’t want to push you into anything…but Finley, I want you to change your name. I don’t want to be the Carnegie.” He flashes me a tight grin. “I want to be your Carnegie. And I want you to be mine. I want you to live with me forever. I want to give you everything I have…and I want you to give me what you have.” He laughs, quite wickedly, and then I’m laughing as well. “You’re my favorite thing that ever happened to me. And you make me so much better. I realized the other day it’s been less than two months…since the Dilaudid,” he whispers. “But I never think about it.” He presses his lips together, and his eyes squeeze shut. I touch his hair, and his hand lifts to wipe his eyes.
“Don’t do that.” I run my fingers underneath his eyes. “Let me, so you don’t have to lift your arm.”
“I don’t want to go back to Boston,” he rasps. “Yesterday I asked if maybe I could be traded. If my arm comes back.”
I nod.
“I think they’re willing do it.” He blows a breath out. “If it doesn’t…I don’t know. But I’ll find something else. Finley, I just want to wake up with you every day and give you those babies you want. If I play again, I want you there for every game you want to come to. I won’t ever use again. I wouldn’t do that to you. I don’t want to do it to me, either.”
