“I’m sorry. I just forgot about that part, which is stupid because the baby is sort of one of the main points of the plot.”
“Right. And even though you didn’t remember, I did.” She laid her hand on my arm. “I’m fine, Dean. Seriously. Babies don’t trigger me. I can even see them out in the wild and not run screaming in the opposite direction.”
“I know.” I tried to ignore how good even her most innocent touch felt. My body reacted to Willow’s hand on my arm as though she was about to slip her fingers into the waistband of my pants.
“Okay.” She withdrew her hand, and I wanted to grab it, hold it in mine. Kiss her knuckles. Lower that hand to my lap, and—
Clearing my throat, I tried to focus my attention on the movie again. But as it turned out, I was worried about Willow when I should have been more concerned about my own reaction. Dana Barrett’s baby Oscar was seriously cute. Seeing Bill Murray relate awkwardly to the little tyke made me wonder what I’d be like with my own infant. I’d never been around kids too much; my cousins were all older than me, and we didn’t interact often, anyway. I hadn’t even held a baby.
What if Willow decided to keep the child we’d made? I tried to imagine what that might look like in the future. Would I visit whenever I was in town? Would she tell him or her that I was just an old friend, or by then, would we both feel all right about admitting the truth?
Being in the baby’s life on a full-time, regular basis was impossible. I was going to be launching my career in the Army, and that meant five months at officer basic—location depending on what branch I chose—and then three or four years at my first duty post, and God only knew where that might be. I wouldn’t have much leave at the beginning, not enough to make regular trips back to . . . wherever Willow and the baby might be.
“I love this part,” Willow murmured.
On the screen, the Statue of Liberty had left Liberty Island and was wading into New York Harbor as Jackie Wilson sang.
“Yeah, same,” I said distractedly.
“I mean, can you—oh!” Willow shifted, pressing one hand to the small mound of her belly. “I guess Lady Liberty isn’t the only one who appreciates Jackie Wilson. Baby Thing is getting its groove on.”
I stared at her. “You can feel the baby move?”
She glanced at me. “Yeah. Not all the time, but more and more lately.”
“You didn’t tell me that.” I was annoyed, and I wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t like I expected Willow to give me regular updates on the baby’s development. Since I’d been spending time with her, we only referenced her pregnancy in passing, and when we mentioned the baby, it was in weird generalities.
But now I wanted to know more. If Willow could feel the baby move, what did that mean? Was it kicking or just moving its arms around—and why did we have to keep calling the baby it? Shouldn’t she know the gender by now?
“No, I didn’t tell you,” Willow answered me slowly. “I didn’t think you cared.”
“Well, I do.” I crossed my arms over my chest.
“You never said anything. You haven’t asked me about how it’s doing—only about how I’m feeling.” Willow wasn’t upset; she sounded strangely reasonable.
“Only because I didn’t know how to ask—and I thought maybe you didn’t want to talk about it. Since you’re not sure.” I swallowed. “Also, I thought if your parents heard us, they might think it was odd that I was invested in the growth of a baby who doesn’t belong to me.”
“Okay.” She wiggled around until she faced me, her long hair framing her pretty face. “Well, we’re here alone now. Ask whatever you want.”
Of course, now I couldn’t think of a single thing. “Um, what does it feel like when the baby moves?” That was a good place to start.
Willow smiled. “Weird in the beginning. At first, I didn’t realize what I was feeling. I thought it was just gas or something. But now I can tell when it’s kicking. It happens mostly after I eat or drink, or when there’s music.” She pointed to the TV. “Case in point.”
“That’s cool.” I stared down at her belly. “It’s crazy, isn’t it, that we had sex last summer, and now there’s a little being moving around in you.”
“Very crazy.” Willow laughed. “Do you want to feel it move?”
“Are you serious?” My eyes went wide. “Hell, yeah, I do.”
“Okay. Give me your hand.”
She circled my wrist with her fingers and placed my palm flat against her. I was surprised at how tight and hard her bump was, and for a moment, that was all I could think about. And then, suddenly, I was poked in the palm.
“Holy fuck!” My smile was huge. “It really did—what was that, a kick?”
“Probably. I can’t tell yet which is what when it comes to arms and legs.” With a thoughtful expression, she moved my hand a little lower. “Try here. This is a favorite spot.”
We sat there for the next half-hour, the movie forgotten, as I moved my hand over Willow’s stomach until I couldn’t feel anything else.
