Page 66 of Summer's Echo
He puckered his lips expectantly, and Icouldn’t fight my smile. I set the bags on the counter before walking toward him,leaning down to press my lips to his. His morning kiss was my favorite part of the day.
“You said you were grabbing coffee. Looks like you went shopping.”His voice was still laced with sleep.
“Just picked up a few things for our juice and these.” I handed him his coffee and a smallbrown paper bag, watching as his lips curl in appreciation.
“French toast sticks.”He groaned playfully,tearing into the bag like he hadn’t enjoyed the sweet deliciousness at least once a week.
I watched him, amused, until hiswide grin slowly fadedinto somethingindescribable at the sight of the contents in the bag. A flicker ofbewilderment, anticipation…joy.
“Summer, are you…?”His voice trailed off, as if he needed a moment to find the words.
Ishrugged, staring at mybouncing leg.“I don’t know. My period’s late.”
Echo reached up,his fingertips brushing against my chin, nudging me to meet his gaze.
“How late?”His voice was calm but still unreadable.
“Almost two weeks.”
My eyessearched his, trying to decipher what he was feeling, but his expression gave nothing away. Without a word, he grabbed my hand andlifted me to my feet, then with quiet determination, he led me down the hall, straight to his bedroom, then into the bathroom. I swallowed, heart racing as Ipulled down my pants and sat on the toilet. Too many reincarnated moments crowded the space. Too many timeswe’d stood on the edge of the unknown, waiting.
“E, I’m—”I started, but he lifted his hand, stopping me.
Shaking his head, he said,“Don’t do that, Summer. Don’t you dare apologize.” His eyes softened.“For what?” Then, raising a questioning brow, his tone turned absolute.
“Whatever happens in the next few minutes, I’ll tell you the same thing I told you last time… I got you, Sunshine.”
The weight I hadn’t realized I was carrying dissolved just a little. Oddly, this time, I didn’t feel like my world was falling apart.
Echo—October 2020
“I don’t think you’re making it to the end of November, Sunshine,”I teased, following Summer as shewaddledup the steps to the rooftop. “We’re gonna need a crane to get you up here.”
She shot me a glare over her shoulder,chewing on a bite of French toast. “It’s not funny, E. I already feel like the Michelin Man,”she whined.
I shook my head,biting back a smile. It wasOctober, and mySunshinewaseight months pregnant. After threepositive pregnancy tests, we wasted no time scheduling a doctor’s appointment to confirm. Summer cried, but this time,they were happy tears. She wasfive weeks along, and though the baby was technically the size of a pea,I liked blueberry better. After weeks ofbrutal morning sickness, we flew to St. Louis for her dad’s birthday andsurprised the family with the news. We were nervous, but the second they saw thepure joy on our faces,her parents were ecstatic. In true Obi Abara fashion,my father wasn’t thrilled about another pregnancy before marriage, but hewished us well. My mother, on the other hand,couldn’t contain her excitementand immediately started planning our baby’straditional Nigerian baptism gown.
I often thought back to that day in theclinic all those years ago, wishing I could’ve seen the stages of our baby’s growth. Thatwasn’t our time then. But now? I never missed an appointment.Never missed a chance to bond with our little blueberry. Atalmost seven pounds, the baby was alreadya chunkster. They lovedrap music during the dayand thesound of rain at night. And mySunshine? She was amasterpiece—a breathtaking force of strength and beauty. Herbellywasround and full, a rich, deepchocolate hue that seemed to glow. That delicateline running down the center was my favorite. It marked thejourney her body had taken to bring our little soul into this world.
Well…maybe her hips and ass were my favorites, too. Because,damn.Pregnancy had given her curves an elegance, a soft, full confidence I couldn’t take my eyes off of.
Sometimes, when she thought I wasn’t watching, she’drest a hand on her belly, in awe at the tiny kicks, orwhispering softly, introducing herself as “Mommy” to the tiny person inside. Summer had always been a stunner. Butpregnant? She was luminous—even with herswollen noseandpuffy lips, I couldn’t stay away from her.
“What are you writing in your journal tonight?”I asked, settling behind her on the chaise longue.
We’d spentso many nights out here just being together—our newsacred place. Summer adjusted, opening herpregnancy journal, a little tradition she kept most nights, unless shefell asleep mid-sentence.
“I’m writing about how your baby kicked my ass today,”she grumbled.
I shook my head.“Hey now, don’t talk about my blueberry like that.”
She shot me a look, but I didn’t miss thesoft smile tugging at her lips.
“What would you call heartburn all day and a burning feeling in your butt? Sounds like an ass kicking to me.”She chuckled.
I winced, mouthing,“Ouch.”
She laughed, shaking her head as she continued pouring her thoughts onto paper. Meanwhile, I sat back, sipping my wine while she drank hersparkling grape juice. Watching her like this had become one of my most cherished pastimes. There was something about the way shelost herself in her thoughts, the way her lips would purse in concentration, the way her fingers glided over the pages as if they carried something sacred. Summer flipped to the next page but thenpaused. Her browpinched in confusionbefore softening as she began to read.
