“Well, it’s probably time for bed.”
Zack and I had spent hours in front of the fire, watching the flames twist and crackle, illuminating the master bedroom. We were cuddled in each other’s arms. We played truth or dare, our own version really, I told him things I never told anyone before.
"When I was in eighth grade, I told my sister if she rolled a quarter on her face long enough she would have the perfect skin."
He begins laughing at me. "What did you really do to the quarter?"
I smile at him. "I colored a pencil on the side so it left a mark on her face."
He asked me what I did while he and Matt went skating, I told him about my run-in with Graham. I feel my face heat in embarrassment, just talking about it. Talking about the story of how Graham almost turned me into a cat lady for life brought anger to my chest, burning much like the fire in the fireplace. But like that fire, I had to know when to sizzle out.
Zack, on the other hand, was pretty pissed.
“You’re kidding me? He seriously slept with your best friend? What a d-” I reach up and playfully slap his face, stopping the word from coming out his mouth. Sure, Graham deserved every name in the book and a few more, but that didn’t mean I would resort to that. That was years ago. I moved on. I didn’t really forgive Graham, more like cut him out, but I sure did not forget. It was my heartbreak to handle.
“Sorry.”
“No, it’s okay. I understand. I wanted to kick him in a couple choice places after I caught them. But it wasn’t worth it. They weren’t worth it.” I respond, staring into the heat.
“Whatever happened to Dalia? And her baby?”
I shrug, the thought dawning on me for the first time. I never considered that. I didn’t really give a fig, except I hoped the baby was with a good family and not that she-devil. Or that she grew up. She never was very mature.
“I don’t know. It’s not like I really kept in touch.” I say wryly.
“That makes sense.” he says thoughtfully.
I stare at his face, trying to figure out what he’s thinking. If I could have one super power, it’d probably be mind reading.
“What’re you thinking about?” I resort to asking, lacking the toilet paper roll mind reading kit that Alex stole from Max on Wizards of Waverly Place.
“I dunno. Kids, I guess. Starting a family.” he says, staring into space.
I wiggle uncomfortably, wishing I hadn’t asked now. I stroke my stomach, feeling her kick me in the ribs. She was starting to get stronger by now.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up. I keep forgetting that in five months, you’ll have given birth and we’ll both be moving on.” he says quickly.
It was true. In less than twenty weeks, I would be pushing a watermelon out of an unmentionable place and Zack would be off, living his life. We’d agreed on this way before. So why did I get a pang whenever it was brought up?
“Well, let’s talk theoretically. Say we didn’t move on. We got married. Would you want kids?” I ask.
He glances down at my midriff, which I had exposed because the fire was heating the room past comfortable temperature.
I feel his eyes on me much longer than expected and I shift in discomfort.
“Yeah.” he replies.
“How many?”
“Three.”
I smile. “Me too.”
“Really?”
I nod. “I’ve always wanted three kids. In the ideal world. Two girls and a boy.”
“Me too.”
I giggle. “You’re lying! What guy wants two daughters over two sons?”
“This guy.” he says, pointing at himself with both thumbs.
“Shut up.”
“Never.”
We grow silent, despite his refusal, and in the quiet I begin thinking thoughts I wish I hadn’t.
“Want to do something fun?” Zack asks.
I wrinkle my brow at him. He reaches over and smoothes my forehead for me. “Don’t do that.”
“Okay, okay. What "fun" thing did you have in mind?” I ask.
He pulls my feet off his lap and gets up off the bed, going in to the other room. I wait, drumming my fingers on the mattress.
He comes back in with a sharpie.
“Hold still.” he tells me.
Zack then starts drawing on my stomach. I try to lift my head to look, but he nudges me back down. “Not yet.” he insists.
The pen tickles, and the baby must feel the slight pressure, because she joins in on the attack on my stomach.
“Done yet?” I ask.
“Almost.” he mutters.
I drop my head on the cushion, wondering what in the world he could be doing. I fiddle with the tassel, growing anxious. Finally, he sits back and tells me I can look. When I do, I gasp.
He drew a baby on my stomach. I can tell he could feel her a little, because he drew her exactly as she is laying. It’s so good, it’s like I’m looking in a mirror on my belly.