But then his palm softens. His fingers spread wide, spanning the curve of my stomach gently, so gently, so, so gently. There’s nothing really for him to feel, but it seems as if that doesn’t matter, because Bastian makes a sound I’ve never heard from him before.
“That’s—” He clears his throat and tries again. “That’s really… something.”
“Yeah.” I don’t know why I’m whispering. “It really is.”
The baby-induced nausea settles—apparently, the little gummy bear is satisfied that it isn’t being ignored—but Bastian’s hand stays exactly where it is.
And for as long as that lasts, God, there’s hope in the universe again. There’s light and color and joy andsomething,like Bastian said, a thing that doesn’t have a name but doesn’t need one. There’s a man’s hand on my womb and even though that hand has done so many things wrong, it’s done so many thingsright,too. It has loved me and cradled me and cared for me. It’s protected me and pleasured me. It’s pinned me against skyscraper windows and walk-in freezer doors. I’ve loved that hand and it’s loved me.
Maybe it’ll love me again, one day. If I let it. If he does. Or maybe not—maybe it’ll plunge right back into the ocean of blood that made it, and the scars it currently bears will be nothing compared to all the scars still to come.
Maybe, maybe not.
In-out, in-out.
It’s a world that hangs in the balance, half in the light, half in the dark, and from where we stand right now, there’s no telling which way it will fall.
But it’s not over. Not yet. Not fucking yet.
Then, as quickly as it began, the moment ends. Bastian’s hand falls away and I let it go, even though it leaves me cold in all the places he was warming me up just a second ago.
My heartbeat is wild and out of control as I scoot my stool back, putting precious inches of distance between us. The screech of metal legs against tile is obscenely loud in the quiet apartment. “That was a one-time thing,” I blurt. I sound hard and cruel, but that’s good. Hard is what I need to be right now. Cruel is the only thing keeping me from dissolving into a puddle of hormones and hope and other stupid things that will only get me hurt. “You don’t get to do that again.”
Bastian’s hand hovers in the air where my belly used to be. I can hear the absence of movement, the way he’s frozen mid-reach like a man who just had something precious ripped away from him.
The silence ticks for one beat. Two.
Then his hand drops to his side.
“Okay,” he says.
Just that. Just “okay.”
I retreat to the air mattress without another word, curling on my side with my back to him and the blankets pulled up over my head.
But even though it’s muffled, I can still hear sounds. The pen starts clicking again. In-out, in-out. The scratch of graphite against legal pad. The soft sound of another rejected page being crumpled and tossed aside.
I trace slow circles over the curve of my belly as my heart beats.
Ba-boom. Ba-boom.
In-out. In-out.
Maybe. Maybe not.
My eyes grow heavy. Sleep pulls me down. I surrender to it gratefully.
22
BASTIAN
flash point /flaSH point/: noun
1: the temperature at which oil ignites.
2: can you feel it? can you feel the burn coming?
The rooftop gravel bites into my knees through my jeans as I crouch behind an HVAC unit, watching the safe house across the street. My phone screen glows with the time.
