My throat tightens, and my eyes grow damp. “If we had children, it would be harder to find as much time alone. It would be like this weekend. For a while,” I blurt. Then, I flinch. Why did I say it now when I’d planned for Sunday? And why that way? Like I’m handing him his objections first, so I’m braced to hear them. I should have said something simple like “I’ve been thinking . . .”
But Henry is Henry. We’ve known each other—loved each other—far too well and far too long to get tangled in words, and understanding settles behind his eyes. “This is what you’ve been thinking about. You want us to have a child?”
My nerves vibrate, my stomach churning with a hundred butterflies in flight. “When I went off hormonal birth control, my rheumatologist asked if I wanted to change my other meds to be safe for a pregnancy, and I did. I thought it was a good idea in case condoms failed. But then, I started to imagine it. To hope for it. The only thing is . . .”
He takes a heavy breath. “Me.”
“The plan was always to leave running the family businesses behind when your brother was ready to take over. I think he’d jump at the chance. But if you don’t think he’s ready, maybe it doesn’t have to be all or nothing. I don’t want to wait for our lives to be perfect first . . .” I trail off. “Unless you need that. And if you do, I understand.”
Henry’s brows lower, his expression contemplative. The kitten, belly round and eyes sleepy, finishes the formula. Henry returns him to the clean nest he’d set up for them.
Then, Henry disappears into the bathroom, and I hear the shower start.
If he were another sort of man, I’d probably take the fact that he left as him shutting me out, but he’s not. He’s thinking, and when he’s ready, he’ll start talking as if there was no break in the conversation at all.
He could be in that bathroom quietly deciding he wants to be a father. It doesn’t have to mean he’s figuring out how to tell me no.
Any other time, I’d have drifted off to sleep while I waited, but anticipation and anxiety fizz inside me like bubbles in champagne.
Henry would never be cruel if he wasn’t ready for children. He’d be matter-of-fact and logical.
I’m not sure that won’t sting just as badly.
When he returns, stripped down to bare skin and smelling of soap, he switches off the light and climbs in beside me, drawing me against him.
I go eagerly, more than willing to wait on the conversation for a better time if it means I don’t hear a “no” tonight.
One of his hands burrows into my hair to hold my head, the other drags the fabric of my nightgown higher and higher, and his mouth closes on mine.
He groans when his fingers reach the bare skin of my thigh, as if just the feel of me is a relief. “This nightgown is like a treasure hunt.”
I run my hands over the warm, smooth muscle of his shoulders and back as he moves over me, his knee parting my thighs to make space for him.
He lifts his head slightly, his voice hushed in the darkness. “I like to make schedules, but people don’t always fit into an itinerary.”
My heart flutters in my chest like a bird fighting to escape a cage. “Could you be flexible with this?”
“If I decided it was the right decision, I could adapt and adjust. But, Franki—” He seems to search for the right words. “You don’t worry about having children with me?”
Outrage, immediate and visceral, floods through me. “You would be a phenomenal father. You’d be gentle and loving and—”
He huffs a laugh and cuts me off with a kiss before lifting his head and sobering. “I know. I know I’d love them. I meant, aren’t you afraid they’ll turn out like me?”
My mouth drops open. I can’t wrap my brain around what he said. Then, words pour out of me. “What are you talking about? I love you. Children will be themselves, but if they turn out to be like you, then I’ll be thrilled because the world would be a better place with more people like you in it.”
I feel my hair move with his heavy exhale. Feel his chest expand against mine as he braces himself over me. “I could pass autism to my children, Franki. That’s reality.”
In the past, he’s always been so matter-of-fact about his autism. When I was eight years old, he told me he was neurodivergent, and it was just him. “Like having blue eyes and brown hair.”
As far as I’m concerned, he’s perfect. “Do you wish you were different?” The thought forms a pit in my gut.
He shakes his head. “I imagine it would be nice to get a haircut and not feel like I wanted to crawl out of my skin. Or hear someone chew and—” He shudders. “Life would be easier in many ways, but no. I don’t. The way my brain works makes me who I am. I was asking for you.”
“Then we agree.” I reach up to cup his face, my thumb brushing across his cheekbone. “You’re not something that went wrong. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. If we have children, we’ll love them for who they are. And we’ll meetthem where they are, the same way we do with each other. There are no guarantees about anything in this life.”
He presses his forehead to mine, and I sift my fingers through his hair.
“I can understand you not wanting to wait for perfection. But I work long hours. It would put a lot of pressure on you,” he says.
