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He always said the most amazing things as nonchalantly as if he were telling me the time.
“Maybe you’d be the best for us,” I said softly.
“If I fucked up, I’d never forgive myself.”
“That’s why I didn’t want an epidural,” I blurted out as I gently rocked my baby. A baby that felt like he’d never get here. “There are potential side effects, and I wasn’t about to risk anything.”
Whether my husband liked to admit it or not, whether he thought he could walk away for my benefit or not—yes, all these months later, I was still smarting over that—Eoghan needed me.
I mean, I needed him too, so it was a fair exchange, but without me, and now Bump, Eoghan would fade away. The work would take a hold of his soul and would eat him up from the inside out.
I wished like hell he could get out of it, away from the job, but I knew that wasn’t a possibility. Not for a long while.
So I had to be around.
I had to be healthy; I had to stay safe.
If I didn’t, he’d make the walking dead look vivacious. I loved him too much to consign him to a fate like that.
“I’d prefer for you not to be in pain.”
“Women have been doing it without pain relief for millennia.”
“They were also wiping their asses with leaves. Do you want to regress that far too?”
I huffed at him, well aware he was smirking at me even as he was still studying Bump.
After a couple of minutes of us just looking at our baby, I whispered, “I want to name him—”
“Feliks.”
His interruption had my eyes widening, not just with surprise but happiness too. “That’s a Russian name!” I knew it was because of the intonation on the ‘-ks.’
His lips didn’t curve; his stoic and serious expression didn’t break. “He’s the best parts of you, isn’t he? Those parts are Russian too.”
My throat closed. “Thank you, Eoghan.”
I’d been so sure he’d want to go with an Irish name.
Peeping a glance at him, I whispered, “Feliks Padraig O’Donnelly.”
His lips curved. “You just want Padraig to wet the baby’s head.”
Knowing that it was highly likely our family had already consumed vodka and whiskey and were smoking cigars in the waiting room, I just grinned. “I think that’s happening as we speak.”
“Feliks Padraig O’Donnelly.” He nodded. “I like it.”
Feeling a little weepy, I asked softly, “I know he’s kind of gross right now, but would you like to hold him?”
“I might break him.”
“You’re not the Hulk. Anyway, you’re his dad. He needs to know what you smell like.”
He stared at me uneasily. “Do I smell bad?”
“No.” I snorted. “You smell like Eoghan.”
Clean. So clean.Beyondclean even after four hours in a labor ward.
