by Kennedy Ryan
“Faster.” I twine my fingers with his between my breasts. “Please go fast. I need it fast.”
He doesn’t answer, just maintains the steady pace, and my body clamps around him with each withdrawal, afraid he won’t come back. I’m a seaside fire he’s methodically building, taking his time with. Soon I’m a roaring bonfire, flames tossed by the wind and licking high into the air. My moans and whimpers dance with his grunts and groans in the early morning quiet.
His lips coast over my nape as his other hand cups my small belly.
“Bris, you have no idea,” he whispers into my hair. “The thought of you, the sight of you pregnant . . . I’m hard all the time. It’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. I don’t want to be rough, but—”
“You can be,” I insist, pressing back into him, luring him deeper into my body. I contract my inner muscles around him, a deliberate provocation.
“Shit, Bris.” His forehead pushes into the base of my skull.
I’ve pulled a lever within him and he turns fast, his tempo feverish. Every time I think he must be almost done, he changes the angle, setting off another constellation of stars behind my eyelids. He’s in full heat, full rut, the instincts of his body dictating every thrust and moan. Light creeps through the drapes, and the vibrant colors of sunrise quietly invade our room while sweat runs freely over our skin, adorning his chest and my back, a wet, sensuous slide that our bodies lap up. I’ve lost count of my orgasms. I’m limp, my muscles and bones loose and liquid even as he still hammers into me.
“Are you okay?” His words are staccato, punctuating between heavy breaths.
“Yes. Baby, don’t stop.” My words are sloppy in my mouth. I’m pillaged.
“I’m close . . . I’m gonna . . . dammit, Bris.”
His growl quakes through my back as he releases. I work my hips, struggling to keep up with the heavy, frenetic piston of his body until he stiffens behind me, rigid as pleasure conquers him. Our breaths fill the air in symphony, his and mine. We come down slowly, his possessive grip on my hip easing, our heartbeats pounding in unison, neither of us wanting to stop. Our bodies still rock as the tumult of the waves gradually gentle. By the time our breathing regulates, light fully intrudes, introducing another morning.
“I really did want to talk,” he says with a husky laugh, walking his fingers down my arm to caress my fingers.
“Hmmmm?” The day is fully lit, but my alarm must have another hour left. Our lovemaking has left me speechless and exhausted before the day has begun.
“I had something to ask you.”
“Ask,” I mutter, eyes half-closed.
“Are you nervous?” he asks. “About today, I mean? Finding out.”
“Are we finding out?” Even half-dead and listless, I manage a wicked smile. Grip wouldn’t be able to hold out. He told me from the beginning, even if I didn’t want to know if we’re having a boy or girl, he would have to.
“Bris, we already talked about—”
“Just kidding,” I cut in with a wisp of a laugh. “No, I’m not nervous. Excited, but not nervous.”
He rests his hand on my hip, fingers twined with mine, and presses kisses between my shoulder blades.
“Dwell in possibility,” he says between kisses.
“Hmmmm?” I turn my head the slightest bit, not enough to see him, just enough to hear him better.
“That’s what I whisper to our baby, to your belly. It’s from a poem.”
“Neruda?”
“Dickinson. It’s a poem called I dwell in Possibility.” He pauses, giving me space to ask questions that I don’t pose because I know he’ll keep going. “I want our kids to grow up believing in possibilities, not because we have money or the advantages that come with it, but because of themselves. They can chase possibilities with nothing stopping them. If my mom hadn’t made me feel that way, like if I could dream it and would work hard, it could be mine, there’s no telling where I’d be today. I don’t want other people’s biases and this country’s broken systems and roadblocks to get in their way.”
Passion, conviction, and cynicism mingle in his voice.
“Hell, it didn’t get in my way, and I had nothing. I want them to be way-makers, Bris, people who explore this world, never thinking it can’t be theirs. That’s what I tell him . . . or her.”
I close my eyes, not to sleep, but to relish this man, this wonderful man who is the epicenter of my world.
“You’re gonna be an amazing father.” I drop my head back to rest in the curve of his neck and shoulder.
“I want to be,” he says. “My dad sucked.”
I don’t hear any pain or bitterness. I’ve never seen holes in Grip that his father should have filled.
“When I was little, I did wonder sometimes why my father didn’t stick around,” he continues, as if answering a question he heard my mind forming. “But my mom didn’t give me time to personalize it. She didn’t keep it a secret or avoid talking about it. She just always made it about him, not a reflection of me. She used to say, ‘Poor thing. That damn fool is missing out on you. Oh well, his loss. More Marlon for me.’”
I lift our hands to my lips, smiling and kissing them.
“She’d say he was gonna look up one day and see a star in the sky that was so far out of his reach, and he’d know that was his son, that could have been his. She assumed from the beginning I’d be something great.”
His takes our hands, still linked, and rests them over the small protrusion of my belly.
“Dwell in possibility,” I whisper, understanding it better now.
Grip’s mouth curves into a smile against my neck as he speaks.
“There was never any doubt.”
33
Grip
I think I broke her.
Bristol fell asleep almost as soon as she climbed onto this examination table in the doctor’s office, and she hasn’t even twitched. Me and my randy ass, hard before the sun was even up, wanting to have sex instead of letting her sleep.
We didn’t use the main entrance, but arranged to enter through the back and come in here instead of the waiting room, but we still have to wait like everybody else for Dr. Wagner, Bristol’s OB-GYN, to finish with the patient before us. While we wait, Bristol sleeps. I’m mentally lecturing me and my dick on being more considerate in the future when Darla the ultrasound technician comes in.
She’s spreading some kind of clear jelly on our little baby bump. Bristol’s eyes pop open for a second, but then she drifts right back into deep sleep.
“She’s really out, huh?” Darla asks with a smile.
“Yeah.” I crook my mouth into a grin. “I’ve never known her to sleep this much. She usually works around the clock, but can barely get through the day without a nap now.”
“Not unusual.” Darla rolls the wand over Bristol’s belly, eyes trained on the screen. “Most mothers . . .”
Her words and her smile dissolve, her gaze sharpening on the ultrasound.
“Everything okay?” I ask, unease crawling over my skin.
“Um, sure.” Darla blinks a few times and shoots me a farce of a smile. She reaches up and presses a button that takes the screen dark. “I’ll be right back.”
“What’s going on?” I demand, keeping my voice low, not wanting to disturb Bristol, but she wakes anyway.
“What’d I miss?” she asks drowsily, rubbing her eyes and sitting up. Darla gently presses Bristol’s shoulder back until she’s lying down again.
“Nothing yet. I just need to check on one thing. I’ll be right back.” She stands and crosses over to the door. “We’ll wake you when it’s time.”
And she’s gone.
The hell.
“Is everything okay?” Bristol is now fully alert, her eyes darting from my face to the door Darla closed behind her. I’m up on my feet and at the door, too. “Where are you going?”
“Piss break.” I glance at her over my shoulder, ordering my face at ease. “I’m gonna dra
in the snake before Darla gets back.”
She rolls her eyes, but her brows bend with lingering concern.
“You sure everything’s okay?”
“Yeah, babe. I’ll be back.”
I walk swiftly up the hall, stopping when I see Darla and our doctor talking outside what I assume is her office or another examining room.
“Hey,” I say, walking up on them. “What’s going on?”
Two startled faces turn to me.
“Mr. James,” Dr. Wagner says, pulling a guard over her eyes, but not before I see the deep concern. “You should go back to the examination room. I’ll be with you shortly. Sorry for the delay.”
“Don’t bullshit me.” I don’t have time to be polite, to apologize for the shock I put on their faces. “Darla, your face changed when you looked at that ultrasound. Is something wrong with our baby?”
Darla blinks at me stupidly, a swallow moving her throat.
“Mr. James, I don’t—”
“Don’t lie to me.” My voice cracks like a whip into the tight air of the hallway. “If something . . .”
I draw a calming breath, blowing out anxiety and fear.
“If there’s something wrong with our baby, I want to know.”
“I’ll join you and Bristol in a moment,” Dr. Wagner says evenly. “I’ll talk to you together.”
She doesn’t deny that there’s a problem, and that fact cuts through my protests like a shard of glass.
“Wait . . . I . . . okay. If we could just . . .” The possibility of something being wrong with our child has me stumbling. “If you could just tell me first.”
“Mr. James.” Dr. Wagner’s reservations come to life on her face. “I’d prefer to discuss everything with you and your wife together.”
I want to be the first line of defense for Bris. I’ve always been protective of her, but the shit that went down with Parker ramped up my need to shield her from danger, from pain. Anything wrong with our baby is pain like I can’t imagine. A premonition of it skims across my nerves. It’s times like these I hate those extra senses Ma says growing up street gives us, the ones that dig between Dr. Wagner’s words, the things she says, into all the things she doesn’t.
“I’ll be there shortly,” she says, finality in her voice. “Thank you, Mr. James.”
Darla’s biting her lip, anxiety in the eyes she slides between Dr. Wagner and me. If I had one minute alone with Darla, I’d get it out of her, but with Dr. Wagner standing guard over whatever secret they’re keeping, I’m getting nothing. Resigned, I head back to the examination room. I open the door tentatively, not sure how I’ll handle Bristol’s questions on the other side.
But there aren’t questions—she’s fallen asleep again. Between the sleep her pregnancy demands and me interrupting her sleep this morning, she’s exhausted. Her head droops to the side, her long lashes shadowing her cheeks. Her hand rests over the small bump, even in sleep, protecting our baby. I slide the chair beside the exam table and dip my head to kiss the baby through Bris’s clothes. I do what I’ve been doing ever since we found out, and the ritual gives me some comfort. These words about what’s possible ease my mind as I wait to hear what left Dr. Wagner’s eyes so grave.
“Dwell in possibility, baby.”
34
Bristol
Something’s wrong.
If Grip’s abrupt departure and lame excuse didn’t give it away, Dr. Wagner’s expression does, even though she tries to hide it beneath a mask of professionalism when she enters the room without the ultrasound technician. She goes through the same process Darla did, running the wand over my belly and studying the screen. She turns the ultrasound away to look at it, her mouth firming into a grim line.
She indicates that I can leave the examination table and take a seat beside Grip.
“Okay. What’s going on?” Grip asks. “We’d like to find out the sex of our baby. Is there a problem?”
A brochure of some kind rests face down in Dr. Wagner’s lap. Anxiety ratchets up, plucking at my nerves. I just want her to blurt it out if there’s a problem. This delay only stirs fear inside of me.
“When Darla looked at the ultrasound,” Dr. Wagner finally says, “she noticed something about the fetus.”
“What?” Grip demands. “What did she notice?”
“Based on what we see,” Dr. Wagner says, her voice careful, like she’s measuring the words out in a recipe that has to be exact, precise portions of brutal honesty and compassion. “We suspect anencephaly.”
Should that mean something to me? For all I know, that could be anything from a rash to . . . I can’t play that all the way out. This baby isn’t even born and I haven’t seen the 3D ultrasound, but I’ve felt flutters under my heart. My shape is changing and my body is working overtime to grow this baby. Anything that endangers my baby’s life could cleave me into un-mendable pieces.
“Ance-what?” Grip’s eyes don’t leave Dr. Wagner’s face, but his hand bridges the small space between us until our fingers twist into a knot of solidarity. “What is that? How do we fix it?”
“An-en-sef-uh-lee,” Dr. Wagner sounds out slowly. Her face still wears that impassive mask, but her hands clutch the brochure like she’s steeling herself to say what needs to be said. “And you don’t . . . well, you don’t fix it. Anencephaly is a terminal diagnosis. I’m so sorry.”
The word “terminal” multiplies, flying around my brain over and over until my mind is a hive of bees swarming, stinging. I struggle to pluck one lucid thought from the buzzing in my head.
“But . . . but how can you know?” My voice emerges from its hiding place high and thin. “You just look at the screen and hand down a terminal diagnosis? That can’t be right. There have to be tests or—”
“Yes, we’ll run an amniocentesis as a . . .” Discomfort crinkles Dr. Wagner’s face. “As a formality, but I’m certain, Bristol. It’s apparent even in the ultrasound.”
I can’t even cry. My arms clasp my little belly protectively and my hands shake. My extremities have frozen like I’m in shock. How could I not be in shock when she just ripped the rug, the floor—the earth from under my feet? I don’t have a leg to stand on.
“What exactly is this condition?” Grip’s voice doesn’t sound like it belongs to him. He has one of those voices, so warm it draws you in, but right now, there’s distance, distance and desperation. “You said it’s terminal, but we don’t know anything about it yet.”
“Yes, of course.” Dr. Wagner allows sympathy into her eyes. “Anencephaly is a serious birth defect in which a baby is born without parts of the brain and skull. Normally, as the neural tube forms and closes, it helps form the baby’s brain, skull, spinal cord, and backbone. Anencephaly occurs if the upper part of the neural tube does not close all the way, thus leaving parts of the brain permanently unformed.”
The compassion deepens in Dr. Wagner eyes and she licks her lips, presses them together before continuing.
“This often results in a fetus being born without the front part of the brain, the forebrain, and the thinking and coordinating part of the brain, the cerebrum. The remaining parts of the brain are often not covered by bone or skin.”
“Not covered by skin and bone?” The words forcibly eject from my mouth. “What does that mean?”
“It’s why we can tell from the ultrasound that the fetus has anencephaly. Let me show you,” Dr. Wagner says, turning the screen around for us to see. “Here, we can see that the top of the head and the brain are . . . missing, and there is only a thin membrane covering that portion, no skull or scalp.”
A moan slices into her explanation, and I’m startled to realize it came from me. I cover my mouth, but I can’t cover my heart. I can’t silence the scream ricocheting in the chambers of my soul. It’s piercing. It’s painful.
“Many are stillborn.” Dr. Wagner presses on despite flicking a concerned look my way. “Those who are delivered as live births will live minutes or hours, in rare cases, a fe
w days.”
“No,” I mutter under my breath. “This can’t be right. A test—there has to be a test, a second opinion.”
“Yeah,” Grip pipes in. “A real test, not just a blurry picture telling us our baby might have this condition.”
“Like I said, we’ll perform the amniocentesis, certainly,” Dr. Wagner agrees.
Her pause drops heavily into the waiting quiet.
“I know this is a lot to take in,” Dr. Wagner says. “But we’ll need to discuss your options.”
“We have options?” I ask, a harsh laugh cutting the inside of my jaw.
“Yes, options.” Dr. Wagner looks from Grip to me and back again. “Decisions.”
The word “decisions” sends a chill up my spine. Oh, God, no. She can’t seriously be asking me to do that.
“More than ninety percent of parents with this diagnosis terminate the pregnancy,” Dr. Wagner says quietly. “I know that’s hard to process, but the fetus—”
“Stop saying fetus,” Grip snaps. “It’s our baby. Call it our baby.”
Dr. Wagner nods, meeting the frustration and naked pain in Grip’s eyes head on.
“I understand,” she says, her tone simultaneously soft and firm. “But you will have to deal with these decisions sooner rather than later. We are . . . well, certain options are time-sensitive.”
My fingers are numb. Tears swim in my eyes, suspended but refusing to fall, frozen there by the chill creeping into my bones and through every cell of my body.
“We’ll take the amniotic fluid today to test,” Dr. Wagner says briskly, standing. “And discuss . . . next steps once we have those results. It typically takes about ten days for NTDs, neural tube defects.”
She’s moving on, and I’m still dazed, shaken, shocked.
“Is the . . .” The word “fetus” stings the tip of my tongue. “Our baby, what is it?”