“Don’t panic, okay?”
Her words reach me through layers of sleep, pushing up like fresh shoots through inches of soil. It takes me a moment to catch up, to sort the sounds into meaning, and when I do—
I sit straight up in a panic, my heart beating violently.
“No,” she says, placing a hand on my bare chest, gently guiding me back to bed. “I saiddon’tpanic.”
“Why? What’s happening?” I blink fast, struggling to breathe. I fall back on my elbows, a little lightheaded as I search her for signs of danger. “Are you okay, love? What can I do? What do you need?”
“Nothing,” she says, though her smile is strained. She’s emanating worry. “I’m fine. I’m sorry—”
I push upright, the blanket falling to my waist, the morning air bracing my heated skin. I take her face in my hands and she sighs, relenting as I search her eyes, then further assess her emotional state. Her smile grows steadier as I check the rest of her, skating a hand down her arm, then the curve of her belly. When I feel the familiar kick of a tiny foot under my hand, the responding flight in my chest is so severe it takes my breath away.
This happens most mornings.
Ella says it’s the sound of my voice. She says the baby is responding to the sound of my voice. The doctors agree with her; the literature agrees with her. Still, I’ve refused to take a position on the matter. I don’t know how to reconcile the equally annihilating forces of joy and terror that chase this experience.
“You’re sure you’re okay?” I ask her, and I feel another responding kick under my hand. Then two more.
I’m suddenly winded.
Sometimes I think I might be imagining the rush of inexpressible feeling I lately experience in Ella’s presence. It’s like the touch of wings; a flutter against my throat.
A second soul.
“I’m fine,” she says. “I swear.”
Only when I’m certain this is true does my body succumb to a relief so great the feeling seems to dissolve what’s left of me. My limbs give out, suddenly leaden. Exhaustion reclaims me. I’m flat on my back as I surrender to the soft bed, sinking into the pillows. I stare, unseeing, at the ceiling.
My heart won’t stop racing.
The sheets sigh as Ella shifts, sliding down a few inches, turning on her side to face me. She glides her hand across my chest, then down my torso. Her skin against my skin works like an opiate.
Slowly, I begin to relax.
As if she knows this, she continues to draw soothing motions up my naked body, moving toward my neck, theline of my jaw. She caresses my cheek, her thumb brushing across my cheekbone, and I exhale deeply, feeling a little drugged. Her love is so powerfully resonant that when I allow myself to surrender to the tide, I wish I never had to resurface. It’s like being submerged in a euphoric tranquility. Her proximity offers me a relief I can hardly describe. I’ve never felt safe anywhere but here, next to her.
“Aaron,” she whispers.
I turn to face her, my eyes slitting open.
She’s in a cropped T-shirt and a pair of underwear. Her top is straining against her breasts, doing nothing for her bump.
She’s never not beautiful. It always decimates me.
“You must be cold,” I say softly, reaching for her.
She insists she’s okay even as she acquiesces, letting me turn her gently. I tuck her into the curve of my body, her back nested against my front. I reach blindly for the blanket, pulling it up around us, and then I press my face to the silken skin of her neck and shoulders and breathe her in, the familiar scent of her calming my senses. I’ve taken on the weight of concrete.
I’m nearly asleep in seconds.
“Aaron,” she whispers again.
My eyes flutter against her neck. I’m half dreaming even as I press a kiss to her skin. “Yes, love?” I murmur.
She experiences a sudden, jolting wave of grief.
“What’s wrong?” I say, tensing. My mind fights to sharpen. “What just happened?”
