“I’m pretty much done. I tried to get it all finished before the honeymoon. There are a few meetings next week, and then it’ll mostly be getting the classroom ready. That’s always a fun part.”
I remember what she was like at the Christmas Eve carol service: warm, funny, and capable. I like to think of her new class coming in, nervous to meet their new teacher, and Wren putting them all at ease. She’ll make a great mum.
I brushed up on my school biology regarding fertilization when I first found out Wren wanted a baby. At some point this week, her ovaries will release an egg, and it’ll begin the long journey along her fallopian tubes. My little swimmers will be doing the breaststroke, desperate to be the first to reach it. When one does, it will unite with the egg to form a zygote, which will begin to divide as it travels to the uterus to implant.
How amazing is that? The miracle of life.
“I hope I can have children,” she murmurs, so she’s obviously thinking about it, too.
“Yeah, me too.”
“I know a lot of people have trouble conceiving. They never tell you that when they’re warning you about pregnancy in Sex Ed classes at school.”
“No, that’s true. But I guess that’s because most people don’t have an issue. Only one in seven couples have trouble conceiving, and eight out of ten conceive naturally within a year of regular sex.”
“Hmm, I suppose.”
“If we don’t fall pregnant the first time, we’ll have to keep trying.”
“Oh no,” she says, acting devastated.
“Yeah, it’ll be a real tragedy, but we’ll just have to get on with it.”
We both chuckle.
“Are you secretly praying it doesn’t happen?” she jokes.
I smile, but inside I give a little sigh. It’s possible she’ll get pregnant right away. And what will happen then? Will she pull away as soon as she gets what she came for? I would have said yes, because I know she’s worried about being hurt, but that was before we made love. Before I was able to give her an orgasm. Before I walked in and found her in my bed.
“Sorry,” she says, “my feet are cold.”
“I don’t mind. I’m like a portable heater. Warm them up on my legs.”
She laughs and tucks her feet between my calves. Her soft body is now pressed against me. I can smell her perfume, which is becoming synonymous with her—light, flowery, sensual, sexy.
I could easily make love to her again. Part of me wants to cram as many lovemaking sessions in as I can, just in case when we return to Auckland she announces it’s over. But I can’t live like that. I have to believe this is real, or it all becomes a farce.
And anyway, I don’t want to make her sore. We’ve got all week, and this is as much about showing her affection as it is giving her orgasms. I don’t think she’s had much of either in her life, and I want to be the only person who gives her both for the rest of her days.
I shift a little onto my side so we’re wrapped around each other, and content myself with kissing her hair and stroking her back while we gradually descend into sleep.
*
The next morning, I wake up to the smell of frying bacon.
I groan and put out a hand, but the bed is empty, and I lever my eyes open. Wren’s gone, but the sheets are still warm; she hasn’t been up long.
Rolling over, I stretch and yawn, briefly debate doing something with my morning wood, then growl at myself and visit the bathroom. I only woke up once in the night. Wren had turned over, and she was asleep, but when I cuddled up behind her, she nestled back into me without waking up, and we slept like that for the rest of the night.
After pulling on my track pants and tee, I go out.
I discover Wren in the kitchen, talking to Ruth. She’s laughing as I walk in, and I hear Ruth say, “Yes, both of them! In their suits! The chlorine ruined those, I tell you.”
Oh God, Ruth’s telling her stories about my childhood. Lips twisting, I say, “It was Caesar’s fault,” as I go over to the fridge and retrieve a bottle of water.
“Morning, petal,” Ruth says from where she’s turning bacon strips over at the hob. Other pans contain sizzling sausages, hash browns, mushrooms, eggs frying with gleaming yellow domes, and sliced tomatoes, and a saucepan bubbles with baked beans. “Breakfast won’t be long.”
“Morning.” I go over to where Wren’s sitting on a bar stool at the breakfast bar, wrap my arms around her, and kiss her neck. “Morning beautiful,” I murmur. “I missed you.”
