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We write off her suggestion because we can’t afford to be open about our pregnancy with people in the community. Too many people know me; too many people knowofHoly. “Will do, doc,” Holy says, but we both know the truth. We’ll do no such thing.
We walk out of there with our heads down, carefully avoiding the knowing gazes of other women in the waiting room. Holy holds my hand in the car and brings my knuckles to his lips. “Everything okay?”
The answer stretches before me. Physically, I’m perfectly fine. But there’s a war brewing in my head.It’s just a few months,the little voice reminds me—just a few months.Then we’ll never have to worry again. “I’m with you,” I tell him, “everything is perfect.”
26
HOLY
Idon’t know where the time goes. One day Danielle is telling me she’s pregnant, and the next, we’re at our first baby appointment. I watch the winter days pass in a blur of math classes and stolen moments. The students stay the same while my personal life is turned upside down.
Iwould do anything to take the weight of the world off Danielle’s shoulders. I could never manage the symptoms she’s going through with as much grace. If she isn’t nibbling on saltines during her TA period or stifling a yawn when we’re together, she’s swinging from one mood to the next or complaining about new and scary body aches. And I understand, probably better than most men.
I understand that she needs to eat saltines to settle her stomach. The cafeteria smells perfectly normal to me, but it turns her stomach. It’s a combination of mystery meat and boiled vegetables. Not to mention we’re in a high school where the students are either caked in body spray or haven’t learned about basic personal hygiene yet. I’ve stopped asking Danielle to pass out homework in class because there are too many smells that might trigger her ongoing nausea.
I understand that she’s always tired, too. She’s growing a human from scratch. No one but a woman could take a seed and create a fully formed person. She fell asleep a few days ago while we were watching Sons Of Anarchy. I was pointing out what was realistic to the motorcycle club life and what wasn’t. The next thing I knew, she was softly snoring against my shoulder. I turned off the television, pulled a blanket over us, and let her sleep.
I understand that hormones are raging through her body and upsetting the delicate nature of her easygoing personality. Sometimes she gets angry when she and Esther don’t see eye-to-eye. A few weeks ago, she cried when she broke a plate as she pulled it out of the dishwasher too fast. She’s moody, and she has a right to be.
I understand that every new cramp makes her nervous, even when we’re past the first trimester. I do my best to remind her that if she isn’t bleeding and the twinges of pain aren’t severe, to remember what the doctor said. As her body stretches to accommodate the baby, she’s going to be uncomfortable. Pelvic pain may crop up as the baby grows, and they said not to worry if she’s a little sore from time to time.
I understand all of this, and I wish I could help her. I wish I could take something off her plate so it was easier for her to deal with the rest. But all I can do is offer my services and pretend I’m not hurt when she grumpily says she can do it herself.
Pregnancy isn’t all bad. Though Danielle’s hormones are driving her crazy, they’re also driving her insane with lust. If I had known sooner that pregnancy would cause a girl to hop on your dick and ride it until you don’t have an ounce of cum left, I would have developed a pregnancy fetish early on.
Danielle can’t get enough of me. When I’m drinking a Gatorade to replenish my fluids and eating a power bar to prepare for the next round, she’s licking my cock from base to tip to get me hard. “Come on, Holy daddy,” she looks up at me through thick eyelashes, “stick it in your little girl.” I don’t know what comes over her, but I come all over her to show my appreciation.
As Danielle starts gaining some weight when she enters her second trimester, her tits and ass get bigger, and I worship her newly enhanced appendages. The books all say they’ll go away a few months after birth.
“I’m going to keep you pregnant forever.” We’re lying in bed, and I admire her cute baby bump. She’s showing just enough that she’s glad she left the dance team when she did. I love running my hand across her stomach and feeling our baby growing beneath it. She feels kicks some days, but they’re so few and far between that I haven’t felt one yet.
Danielle taps the back of my head with a laugh. “Why?” She asks. “I feel fat and ugly.”
“You’re beautiful,” I scold her. “So fucking beautiful that it hurts. I can barely walk into class anymore without getting a hard-on. That’s the effect you have on me. And you’re not fat.” I don’t want to hear her call herself that ever again. For one, it isn’t true, and even if it were, she’d be beautiful at any size. “You’re growing a baby, Dani. Probably the most beautiful baby known to man.”
She giggles and taps my head again, harder this time. “Stop,” Danielle commands. “You don’t even know what this baby is going to look like. It might have my feet.”
It takes all my self-control not to laugh at her unfounded concern. “Excuse me. Your feet?” I roll over onto my side to look down at her feet. I’ve never noticed them before.
Danielle struggles to hide her feet under the blanket. “Don’t look at them!” She yells, her tone fraught with laughter. “They’re dancer’s feet.”
I crane my neck to show her I’m skeptical about her claims. “And what, pray tell, is the difference between regular feet and dancer’s feet?”
She gives me an impatient sigh before explaining. “I’ve shoved my feet into ballet flats since I was five years old. They’re deformed.” She pushes them a little deeper under the covers. “What if our kid gets deformed feet?”
I snort over her worry that she might pass on her feet to our child. “Baby, you spent years deforming your feet all on your own. That isn’t a genetic condition you can pass on to our kid. Your cute nose? Absolutely.”
She hides her nose behind her hands. “Holy!” Danielle scolds. “My nose is not cute. I’ve been asking my dad for a nose job since I turned thirteen. But he keeps saying no and that I have to pay for it myself if Ireallywant it.”
That plucks a chord in my chest. I never realized that there were parts about Danielle that she didn’t like. “I hope you don’treallywant it.” I try to keep my features passive so she doesn’t think I’m judging, but it’s hard when she’s criticizing a body and face that I fell in love with.
Danielle slowly brings her hands away from her face and shrugs after a long second. “I guess I don’t, but I’m still self-conscious about it.” She admits.
“Don’t be,” I tell her. “It is part of what makes your face so unbelievably beautiful.” That’s the end of the conversation. I climb up the bed on my forearms and press my lips to hers until all her well-formed arguments are forgotten.
27
DANIELLE
