Tears blur my vision as I nod, but I can’t speak the word.
“Is that a yes?”
I laugh, setting the first rush of tears free. “Yes,” I whisper.
I’m swept into his arms in the next instant, and the puppy takes it as a cue to play, nipping at us and letting out the cutest bark I’ve ever heard. We both pull back on a smile, and Clinton pulls a little toy from his pocket, offering it to the pup who eagerly chews on it.
“You had that the whole time?”
“Oh, you should see the supplies in my truck right now.”
I laugh. “So… when do we do this?”
“Is now too soon?”
“Maybe,” I say on a chuckle. “I need to pack. And Jess…”
“Will be just fine,” he promises me. “How about you focus on getting through the rest of the semester, and I’ll handle packing and moving. Deal?”
I nod. “Deal.” Then, I shake my head, covering my mouth with both hands. “We’re moving in together.”
“We are.”
“We need a Christmas tree.”
“That can be arranged.”
“And we have a puppy!”
He laughs. “We do. What do you want to name the little girl?”
He grabs one end of the toy, playing tug of war as the puppy presses weight into her haunches and fights against him. She loses her grip, plopping down on her butt and looking up at me with the cutest face before she’s up and going again.
Knocked down, but never defeated.
“Zelda,” I whisper, eyes flicking to Clinton.
“A little warrior, huh?” he muses, ruffling the fur behind Zelda’s neck. “Just like her mama.”
“Does that make you daddy?” I purr, arching a brow when Bear freezes, his eyes flashing to mine.
“Say that again, and I’ll show you just how daddy I can be.”
“Swear it?”
And with a wicked smile, he pulls me into him for a hot, promising kiss.
EVERYTHING IS QUIET UNDER here.
Eyes closed, breath locked in my chest, hair floating all around me.
The bath water is warm, pleasant against my sore muscles after physical therapy. And while nothing has been able to calm my racing thoughts over the last couple of weeks, this is pretty close to peace.
Here, submerged, I can hear my heartbeat.
And I swear I can almost hear hers.
Or maybe it’s his. I won’t know for a while. But she feels like a girl. She feels like she’s got my sass, my competitiveness, my will to never back down. I find myself wondering about her far too often already. Will she be athletic? Intelligent? Funny? Charming? Will she have her dad’s eyes or mine? Whose smile? Whose temper — because either way, she’s likely in trouble, and so are we.
My lungs start searing in my chest, and I come up for a breath, warm water dripping down my face as I blink my eyes open.
The bathroom is dark, save for the little bit of sunlight streaming in from the door I left open. It gets too hot in here when I take a bath, but the open door lets in a draft, and I relax as a gentle breeze wafts over my face.
Everything is loud up here.
Out of the water, anxiety attacks me, pressing me to tell Brandon while also warning me that when I do, I might not get the reaction I want. What reaction do I want? I don’t even know. But fear has me gripped, has the microphone on the stage of my mind as it swears to me that he won’t want our baby — or me once he finds out I slipped on my birth control and made this possible at all.
That anxiety leads straight into wondering if I could do it alone, if I could be strong enough to raise a child without him. How badly would I damage her if I did it on my own? How many times would I fail her in the process of trying to raise her right?
I suppose, partner or not, we all mess our kids up somehow.
Rich, poor, doting parents, or alcoholics — we can trace so much of our trauma back to the mother and father who bore us.
That sends another pang through my chest, and I sigh, sinking down under water once more to block out all the noise.
I think I knew even before I took the test. I think I knew the moment it happened, the very second I felt him spill inside me. It’s like I sensed his little swimmers on their mission, felt my eggs drop and open up. I woke in the middle of the night that night, my back to Brandon’s chest, his arms around my stomach, and I swore I felt it — that little connection inside me that would spark life.
It’s why I didn’t drink at my own bachelorette party.
I faked shots, putting the liquid in my mouth only to spit them into the drink I pretended to chase the shot with. When the girls ordered me a drink, I’d sip on it so lightly I barely tasted it at all until they weren’t looking and I could ditch it. When I ordered my own, it was soda water and lime.