Page 22 of With You

“Please,” I say earnestly. “Can you give us the weekend?”

I know it’s a long shot, but I have enough experience to know what will be, will be. Because I married my dead brother’s boyfriend, and nothing screamsagainst all oddsmore than the improbability of our union. If we were supposed to have this child in our lives, one way or another it would happen, and I genuinely believe that.

“I can,” she says. “But I also do have to check with other families to keep his options open. We can’t put all our eggs in one basket and come Monday morning you say no and we’re back at square one.”

The words aren’t harsh but a reality. Her tone is no nonsense, evidence that the little boy is her priority and she’s going to do everything in her power to make sure he has somewhere soft to land when he leaves that hospital.

I like that. And if we can’t be what he needs, then at least he has her.

“Okay, we’ll call you back either way.”

“Hopefully I’ll be talking to you soon,” Gwen says politely before hanging up.

I stare at the cell as the call disconnects, nothing but silence left behind. My mind nothing but a jumbled mess, filled with dread and dreams and happy ever afters that may or may not be within everyone’s reach.

Finally, I raise my head and am met with Julian’s sad eyes.

“Please don’t look at me like that,” I say. “We have a lot going on right now.”

He lets his body fall back to the mattress, sighing. “You can be right and I can still be sad, both of those things can exist.”

Sliding back beneath the blankets beside him, I pull him into my arms, his head resting on my chest. “We’re only just getting used to having a baby in our lives,” I say. “How would we even juggle two?”

I hate playing bad cop, but every now and then I have to be the voice of reason. Julian is the ever-present optimist in our relationship, and most of the time it’s exactly what we need. WhatIneed.

“I don’t have the answers,” he says. “But filling our house with children doesn’t feel like a bad idea. It would be like any other unexpected pregnancy. They’re still loved.”

I press my mouth to the crown of his head. “I do want what you want. There are just so many variables and so many ways I can fuck it up.”

Julian lifts his head, his chin now resting on my chest, his gaze meeting mine. “Firstly, it wouldn’t be only you who could fuck it up, it would be both of us. We make the decisions together, which means the consequences are ours, together.”

“I don’t want to get it wrong,” I admit. “Not something like this.”

Shuffling up my torso, Julian lays his body on top of mine, propping himself up with his forearms. “Let’s put a pin in this,” he suggests. “Have a shower. I’ll make you breakfast, and after today we can get back to the drawing board and call Gwen on Monday with our answer.”

The soundof our doorbell ringing makes me want to puke almost immediately. Everything seemed like a good idea, when it was just that: an idea. But now, my mother is on the other side of a door she has never been welcome to walk through, and I’m hit with a reminder of me, standing outside my childhood home, equally eager and anxious to tell my mother about Julian and me.

Is that how she feels now?

I feel Julian’s hand land on my shoulder. “Do you want me to open it? Do you want me to leave you here alone? Take your Dad into the kitchen? Should we have thought of a safe word?”

An unexpected laugh bubbles out of my mouth, the tension from my shoulders evaporating almost immediately, the slight smirk on Julian’s face telling me his verbal faux pas was not at all accidental.

“It’ll be fine,” I reassure us both. “You know me well enough to know when I’ve reached my limit.”

I know with my whole entire being that Julian wouldn’t wait for a safe word. If he sees me in distress, he’ll save me, whether I ask for it or not.

Kissing him on the cheek, I take a few steps, closing the distance between me and my parents. Opening the door, I bracemyself for an onslaught of emotions that surprisingly never come. I feel almost numb inside as I take in the woman before me.

There is no denying she’s aged, from the salt and pepper roots of her short bob to the lines around her eyes and the sides of her mouth. She’s smaller somehow, almost like my decision to rid myself of the power she had over me made her somehow less intimidating.

“Deacon,” she greets.

If I expected a smile, or some sort of warm, nostalgic meeting, I’m immediately corrected. She’s as rigid and defensive as she’s ever been, and for some reason this eases my nerves.

I know this version of my mother.

I’m prepared to deal with this version of her.

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