When the elevator finally dings on the sixth floor, I scoop Emma into my arms and step into the hallway, both of us breathless with laughter.
Isprinttoward our room at the end of the hall. Emma always insisted we stay near the exit when traveling with the boys. Something about being with loud, tired toddlers makes it the best option. I didn’t heed those words. Until now.
With a quick swipe of the keycard, she kicks the door open as I carry her inside. We waste no time as we tumble onto the bed, laughing like a couple of teenagers, getting lost in one another the way we used to. The way we still can. The intimacy that time hasn’t taken away.
Our old selves may be gone in some ways, changed entirely in others, butthis…this wild, aching pull toward the woman I love…hasn’t faded. And I don’t think it ever will.
****
The sun peeks through the sheer curtains, painting the room in gold. The clock blinks back at us:6:18 am.
“We’re going to regret this later,” Emma giggle-groans, pouring syrup over her pancakes. She’s freshly showered, wrapped in a hotel robe, sitting cross-legged in the center of the bed with the silver room service tray balanced on her lap.
Somewhere in the middle of the night, we made the valiant decision to stay up till morning. Kissing. Talking. Being together in every sense of theword. I told her about work; she told me she’s been thinking about going back. We cried about Mom, mourning the future we always imagined with her in it. We watched late-night cartoons, played Wordle, and prank-called Jay, who threatened to drop the boys off at our door if we woke her up again. We talked about the kids, about parenthood, about how we’re really doing.
Emma admitted she wants to stop taking her medication. Promised she’s doing better. I didn’t like it; she knows I didn’t. But we agreed to work on a plan together.
“I’ll order us coffee.” I yawn, pulling out my phone. After ordering our usuals, I glance up to see her staring down at her pancakes, untouched.
“Do you want something else?” I ask, shifting closer to her.
“I meant what I said.”
I pause, unsure what she’s referring to. She sets her fork down, moves the tray aside, and turns to fully face me. Her face is serious. It’s the same look she wears when something matters to her. I straighten, waiting, watching as her eyes flicker between mine.
“I’m doing better.” Her words teeter out of her, like they need some convincing. But her eyes…they don’t waver. “I really am a lot better.” She clears her throat and sets her shoulders like she’s preparing for a debate, but her hands tremble anxiously in her lap.
“I know you are, baby.” I take her hands, letting her feel the steadiness of mine. “I’ve noticed for a while; you’re doing amazing.”
“Good, good.” She exhales, relief spreading across her face. Then, with a deep breath, she says, “I think we should have another baby.”
These words hit me slowly, lost in translation as they travel to my auditory nerves. Discombobulated, tangled in the exhaustion and disbelief. I blink once. Then twice.
“I’m sure you think it’s ridiculous,” she huffs. “I mean, come on, we could have twins again, right? That’s insane. It’s insane.” Her voice spikes with each word, as if the more she speaks, themore she starts to question this idea altogether. “I mean, maybe it’s not? No, it is. Three children is a lot.” She half laughs, but it’s lost in the panic growing. I see her anxiety rise with the goosebumps prickling across her chest. I see it in the darting of her eyes, the bob of her throat.
“What am I thinking?” she gasps. “We can’t have another baby! We’re not ready. We’re so tired. The boys…ugh, I love them, but they are so exhausting. Oh my gosh, they clogged the toilet with Legos last week. We can’t add to this!”
A tiny, somewhat adorable, whimper rumbles in her chest, and despite myself, I smile.
“Come here.” I pout playfully, pulling her into my arms. I hold her tight until I can feel her heart thudding against my chest. “Where are you right now?”
She sniffles. “A hotel.”
“What do you smell?”
“Syrup,” she whispers then leans in closer. “And your sandalwood bodywash.”
She inhales dramatically, like I’m intoxicating, and I chuckle, feeling her breath warm against my skin. “What do you see?”
“I see your chin hair.”
I rub my chin against her neck, and she bursts out laughing, wriggling to get away. I tug her back until we both tumble into the pillows.
I press my palm to her sternum, feeling the erratic rhythm of her heart, silently willing it to slow. Her chest rises and falls in deliberate rhythm as she forces her way through her breathing exercise.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask once she’s visibly calmer.
She throws her arms over her face, the towel on her head toppling to one side. “I don’t know what I was thinking,” she mutters. “Just ignore me.”
