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She bites her lip, nibbling on it, and I reach up plucking it from her teeth.
“Don’t do that, you’ll bleed,” I scold.
“I can’t believe you did all this,” she breathes. “I don’t deserve you.”
I tuck a piece of hair behind her ear. “Don’t ever say that.”
“Why not?” she asks, her voice slightly breathless. Her eyes keep darting around the darkened bathroom like she can’t quite believe what she sees.
“Because that makes it sound like you’re somehow less than me, which is the furthest thing from the truth. I’ve never met anyone that’s more my equal than you.”
Her lower lip trembles.
“Are you going to cry?”
“Yes.” She wipes a tear. “I’m pregnant—apparently that means you cry at everything.” She looks up at me, her hazel eyes wide. God, I hope our baby gets her eyes and not mine. They’re exotic and beautiful, unlike my brown ones. “You make me happy.”
That sends a pang to my chest. “You don’t know how good it is to hear that, sweetheart.”
I want to make her smile, and laugh, and for all her days to be filled with joy for as long as I’m alive.
Her laugh is music to my ears and I never want to live a day without hearing it.
I kiss her again, because I can’t help myself.
Her lips are warm against mine, and slightly tangy from a lemon, which makes me smile.
Her hands creep under my shirt, pushing the fabric up and I lift my arms, making it easier for her to remove it.
It doesn’t take long for all our clothes to be piled on the floor in a rumpled mess. I take off my hat and drop it onto the pile and slip into the tub across from Thea, our legs bumping, with the table between us.
She laughs, picking up a petal. “Did you murder a peony?”
I shrug and the water sloshes. “It died for a worthy cause.”
She sighs and drops the petal back into the water.
“We find out the gender at my next appointment,” she says, and I’m kind of shocked that she’s bringing it up.
I nod. “Yeah.” I pick up a piece of cheese and cracker and pop it into my mouth. I shouldn’t be eating cheese, but fuck it.
“What do you want?” she asks, cutting up her lemon and adding some to her water.
“Huh?” I ask, confused by her question.
“Do you want a boy or a girl?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Either would be fine, I’m a guy so I see myself with a little boy. It’s easier to picture what to do. What do you want?”
“I thought I didn’t care, but last night …” she trails off and the water sloshes as she rubs her small bump.
“Last night?” I prompt, trying to get her back on track.
She inhales a breath. “Last night, I had a dream and the baby was a girl—and now I really want a girl.” She looks away, her eyes distant. “I want that.” She puts emphasis on the last word, and I know she means more than a girl.
“You want what?” I urge her to tell me.
She slowly brings her eyes back mine, and the sadness in them guts me. “I want what I didn’t have growing up. I want to be a mom who plays dolls, and does her kid’s hair, and plays dress-up and make-believe games. I want to go to dance recitals and games and encourage them to try new things. I don’t want to be a failure like mine.” She wipes away a tear. “Things are good now, but she wasn’t always there. I want our kid to know I’m always there.”
