Page 41 of Dash to Me
“And your pasta-making,” I add.
“And my pasta-making,” he agrees. “Oh, and good natural light for your painting. I know you haven’t had much time for it lately.”
“But I will,” I say softly, my mind already wandering to my easel, tucked away in the spare room that’s become Amara’s nursery. I haven’t touched a brush since my third trimester, when my back ached too much to stand at the canvas. “Maybe the blue house will have a corner just for me. A little studio space.”
“Non-negotiable,” Atlas says firmly. “You need that space. It’s part of who you are.”
I feel a rush of gratitude for this man who has never once asked me to be smaller, to fit myself into a more convenient shape. Even in the chaos of new parenthood, he remembers the parts of me that aren’t just “mom.”
“What about you?” I ask. “What space do you need?”
He thinks for a moment. “A workshop, maybe. In the garage or basement. Somewhere I can tinker with things, build furniture for the kids.”
“The kids,” I repeat, loving the sound of it. Plural. A promise.
Amara stretches in her sleep, her tiny arms reaching above her head in that way that always makes us both melt. Her lips purse and then relax, dreaming of milk perhaps.
“Should we wake her for a feeding?” Atlas asks, checking the time.
“Let her sleep a little longer,” I say. “She’ll let us know when she’s hungry.”
As if on cue, Amara’s eyes flutter open, and she makes a small sound that we’ve come to recognize as the preamble to hunger. Not quite a cry yet, but a warning.
“Somebody heard us,” Atlas laughs, taking her from me so I can adjust myself for feeding.
I settle back against the couch cushions as he passes her back to me. She latches quickly, her eyes looking up at me with that intense, knowing gaze that sometimes makes me wonder if babies remember more than we think.
Atlas brings my tea closer so I can reach it with my free hand. “I’ve been thinking about names,” he says casually. “For next time.”
“Already?” I tease, though I’ve been doing the same.
“If it’s a boy,” he continues, “what do you think about Gabriel?”
“Gabriel,” I repeat, testing it against Amara. “I like how they sound together. Amara and Gabriel.”
“And for a girl?”
I’ve had one tucked away, a name I’ve loved since I was young. “What about Eliza? After my grandmother.”
Atlas smiles. “Perfect. Gabriel or Eliza.”
ATLAS
It’s been an adventure.The last almost two years of my life with her by my side have the best of my life. She has given me two beautiful children: Amara and Gabriel. They are our everything, but we don’t forget to show each other. Everyone has warned us that once the routine sets in, marriage gets complicated, but not us. Instead of having some big wedding, my mother watched the kids, and we went away for the weekend. I couldn’t wait for her to be Mrs. Lockwood.
I watched her walk down the short aisle of the courthouse, her simple white dress flowing around her ankles. No fancy cathedral, no hundred guests, just us and the promise we were making. When she reached me, her smile outshone everything else in the room. The justice of the peace barely existed in my periphery as I lost myself in her eyes.
“I never thought I’d be this happy,” she whispered as we exchanged rings. Simple gold bands, nothing extravagant, but they meant everything.
After the ceremony, we drove to a small bed-and-breakfast overlooking the coast. The innkeeper had decorated our room with rose petals and champagne, but we barely noticed. All that mattered was that she was finally mine, legally and completely.
That night, as we lay tangled in the sheets, watching the moonlight dance across the ocean, she traced her finger along my chest.
“What are you thinking about, Mr. Lockwood?” she asked, her voice soft against my skin.
“About how lucky I am,” I replied, pulling her closer. “About Amara and Gabriel waiting for us back home. About the life we’ve built and everything still ahead of us.”
“Do you think we’ll make it?”
