“I know you can.” I took the towel and began cleaning the gel. “Let me anyway, yes?”
When I finished, she pulled her shirt down. I offered my hand to help her down from the examination table. She hesitated before taking it.
I followed her to the reception area, watching as she confirmed her next appointment with Kandi, who was watching us with fascination. Kandi caught my eye and mouthed, “Good luck.” Then we proceeded to the elevator in loaded silence.
I studied the ultrasound images of my children. The reality of them felt simultaneously abstract and overwhelming.
I traced my thumb over the smaller shape. My little girl. “Would you object to naming her Yianna?”
Dede looked at me curiously. “Does it have any significance?”
“It means God, He is gracious.” And He has been, by giving me this second chance.
I braced for resistance. Dede seemed constitutionally opposed to agreeing with any suggestion I made.
“Yianna. Yianna and Tia.” A small smile touched her lips. “I like it.”
Relief flooded through me, though I merely nodded my acknowledgment.
Dede reached for my hand, pressing it against the swell of her abdomen. “She just moved. I think she approves.”
I covered her hand with mine, feeling the connection between us and our children. The warmth of her skin, the movement under my palm, and the way she looked at me with tenderness drew me toward her.
I leaned closer, my gaze dropping to her lips—
The elevator doors opened with a sharp ding. Two teenage boys tumbled in, laughing at something on a phone screen. They glanced our way with knowing smirks before resuming their conversation in loud whispers.
I straightened reluctantly, but kept her hand in mine, threading our fingers together.
15
The doorbell rang just as I was finishing combing through my client list for Black Ember replacements. Busy work, mostly. The kind you do so you don’t have to think about how small a man’s “family values” can make you feel.
I stretched, working out the ache in my lower back, then waddled to the door. At twenty-three weeks with twins, “walking” was a distant memory.
A package sat innocuously on my doorstep, the small brown box sealing whatever impulse purchase my pregnancy brain had forgotten ordering.
I checked the label, which had both my name and address. I carried it to the kitchen counter and sliced through the tape with scissors.
Inside were books about marriage and babies. Not just any books, books about maintaining romance while parenting, keeping marriages strong after children arrive, and sex after pregnancy.
I flipped through one titled “And Baby Makes Three.” The chapter headings alone made me giggle: “Rekindling Physical Intimacy,” “Communication in the Bedroom,” “Managing Desire During Pregnancy.”
There was a gift note tucked at the bottom of the box.
Essential reading for our future. - A
“That arrogant, presumptuous—” I stopped mid-sentence when a thump-thump started against my ribs. My hand went automatically to my belly. “I’m not lying. Your father is an arrogant, controlling ass.”
The baby kicked again, harder this time, as if protesting my characterization. “Don’t you start taking his side too,” I whispered, rubbing the spot where an elbow or heel had just jabbed me.
From upstairs came the low murmur of Aris on a business call. The previous afternoon, a desk, an ergonomic chair, and an oversized computer monitor were delivered and installed in his bedroom, transforming it into his executive office. He’d worked through the night and most of today, emerging briefly for breakfast before returning to his back-to-back conference calls.
My stomach growled loud enough to drown out my annoyance. These babies were like tiny dictators demanding food every two hours.
I yanked open the refrigerator door and pulled out ingredients for an omelet. Without thinking, I grabbed a second pan.
Aris had been on calls since six this morning. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast. The hospitality Mama Nettie had drilled into me wouldn’t let me ignore that fact.
