by Julia Kent
I drop the test into the toilet.
“DAMN!” I scream. My vaginal wall muscles are clamped down like the Hoover Dam holding back an unexpected early thaw, and I involuntarily shake the urine off my hand, flinging droplets all over the rest of me. I jump up, turn around, and try to retrieve the ruined test.
Just then, a whuff of cold air assaults my bare ass. Declan has apparently opened the bathroom door.
“What’s wrong? I heard you scream. Are you...” His voice trails off as I look at him, hand in the toilet, naked ass on display, single-handedly proving that taking a pregnancy test is, in fact, rocket science after all.
“We have got to stop meeting like this,” he says softly, closing the door before bursting into laughter.
Now I know why they sell pregnancy tests in packages of two.
The dripping magic wand of fail goes straight in the trash. If I were in a Harry Potter book, my patronus would be a dodo bird.
“Conceptiarmus!” I call out, brandishing the second test like a I’m casting a spell. Hey, if a magic spell ups my chances, I’ll mutter damn near anything, including those strange mantras Mom says you can speak to your chakras to get your soul cycle to synchronize with past lives so you can draw whatever affirmations the universe is supposed to send you when the moon is in the House of Mercury. Or whatever.
I wash my hands. I open the new test. I position the stick. I aim. I hit the target.
I wait.
Time changes depending on how it is used. While we think of time as a fixed commodity, the seconds and minutes and hours all evenly spaced, perfectly calibrated, that is all a lie. We believe in a complete falsehood. Reality has taught me that time is flexible and fungible, stretching out with agonal slowness during moments of great haste, compressing in times of pure ecstasy.
The pause as alchemy performs its ritual inside that little stick is unfathomable. I hold time in my hands. All the millennia humankind has ever known are distilled down to the future moment when I can look at the test and know.
Know.
Know my future.
Our future.
Declan’s soft knock on the door tells me he’s been timing this test. “Shannon?”
“Hmmm?”
“Is it... does the test... can I come in?” His gentle inquiry and respect for my privacy make my heart drop and swell at the same time, his hesitance transmitting the importance of this moment. We’re making a baby. Another human being.
One we’ll be wholly responsible for.
“Of course,” I say, standing, my eyes averted from the stick I’ve left on the counter. His dark, messy hair catches my eye first as he walks into the bathroom in underwear, hands on his hips, looking around the room.
He freezes when he sees the test.
“Did you look yet?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because it just hit the right amount of time.”
“Oh.”
To my surprise, he doesn’t lunge.
“You can be the one to look, if you want,” I whisper, offering him so much more than that.
“I think we should both look.”
“I’m probably not pregnant,” I warn. “The chances are really slim. They say a woman my age has a twenty-percent chance of conceiving every month she has unprotected sex.”
“One in five odds are solid,” he replies.
“This isn’t a stock we’re talking about, Dec. It’s a baby.”
“I know. And if we’re not pregnant, we just keep trying.” He gives me a wolfish look. “The process is its own reward, after all.”
I can’t laugh. Can’t even smile. My stomach is in knots and that damn plastic stick is calling out to me. Yes, it says. No, it taunts.
You can’t be a little bit pregnant. I am or I’m not.
Tears well in my eyes. Declan’s watching me, so he sees it the instant I feel them, and his warmth envelops me. Bare, hot skin brushes against my shoulders as he becomes my shield.
“It’s okay, sweetie. Let’s do it. Let’s find out.”
I nod. I can’t do more, though.
Dec takes the lead and reaches for the test, his arm long and muscled, the valleys and curves of tendon and bone aligned with muscle a gracious sight to behold. Dark hair, curled at the ends, covers his strong limb. Time changes whenever I look at him in motion.
A collection with his fingers. A twist of the wrist. My eyes adjust and seek out the words, this test dummy-proof, designed for people who can’t tell if there is one line or two.
The words NOT PREGNANT scream at me.
NOT.
I’m not.
“Oh,” he says, the soft brush of warm breath against the crown of my head more painful than a blow. He follows the word with a soundless kiss, his grip on me tightening.
I go hollow.
Which is fitting, because I am. Hollow, that is. Empty. Unpregnant.
Still just Shannon.
The lump rises in my throat until it blocks out all air, the sun, the moon, the planets, the stars. I close my eyes and stand there, an island that leans against a continent. Declan’s body is the only solid part of the universe.
“We’ll try again,” he murmurs against my ear, the sound fragile, a dandelion seed riding on the edge of a bubble. I break then, tears pouring, the feeling mostly disappointment but tinged with relief.
Relief that makes me feel guilty. Undeserving.
Bad.
“It’s another month to have wild sex,” he continues, his words coming a little faster, my silence unmooring him. “We can try some of those fantasies we talked about a few months ago, when we drank all that South American liquor from that client who–”
I cut him off with a kiss. I’m breathing hard through my nose, tears curled on my lip like expectations dashed, and his lips are closed with surprise, but I melt into him, needing whatever he can give. The empty feeling cannot stand.
We have to make more than that right now.
Without a word, he understands, picking me up in his arms and taking me back to bed. I breathe against him, a tempest inside, knowing that the negative pregnancy test isn’t the end of the world. We learn that there are shades of every color in the world when it comes to compassion. What I need from Declan isn’t ongoing soothing or a steady ear to listen to venting or mourning.
I need him. I need to act and do and be and move and fill. The void inside me is small. This was the first try. I’m okay. Or at least, I will be.
He’s on top of me, our handful of clothes easy to discard. Preliminaries aren’t needed as his eyes meet mine, achingly compassionate and equally pained. Is he empty too, in his own way? Maybe the echo of my hollow core reaches his heart and shakes it, just enough to make it touch me.
By the time he slides inside me, our mouths slanted against each other, my fingertips digging into his shoulders, the thrust of sex in rhythm with our breath, I don’t think about schedules and ovulation, temperatures and timelines, due dates and pee sticks.
I let him love me.
And then I’m not empty anymore.
Chapter 5
Two weeks later
Declan
* * *
“You need to pack a bag,” I tell her casually, masking my emotions as best I can, which is Olympic-level stoicism. “We’re going away for a long weekend. Two days.”
She drops the pen in her hand, shock crawling into the pores of her beautiful face. “We’re what? Two entire days?” Skepticism fills in for surprise. “What’s the business meeting about? Don’t tell me we need to look at plastic storage crates again at some factory in the middle of nowhere. Because the difference between them is–”
“Not business. Pleasure.”
Deep suspicion radiates from my wife’s face, arched eyebrow and pursed lips on display. “You haven’t taken me away for a pleasure trip since our honeymoon.”
We both squirm.
“And we know how well that turned out,” Shann
on adds under her breath, breaking eye contact and looking back at the work I interrupted.
“No fire ants where we’re going. Promise.” Our honeymoon debacle, involving outdoor sex and an unobserved but extremely obtrusive fire-ant hill, rarely comes up as a topic of conversation.
For a reason.
I shift in place, body invoking the memory. I shut it down.
Fast.
At the mention of fire ants, her head tips back up, a lock of hair hanging in front of her ear, just long enough to brush the papers she’s working on. “No fire ants? No business? Why, Mr. McCormick,” she says in a flirty tone, leaning back in her desk chair, revealing a deep V-neck sweater that plunges as she stretches, nipples hardening. “Are you propositioning me?”
“When am I not propositioning you, Shannon?” My pants are tight suddenly, the feeling a welcome change from tactile memories of fire ant bites. “You have an open invitation to sex with me. Any time.”
“But corporate policy says employees cannot fraternize.” She bats her eyelashes.
“No, it doesn’t. We made it clear to the HR team that–”
“Shhhhh,” she chides, one finger up to her lips. Then she licks them seductively and says, “Are you here for my employee review?” Her fingers play at the edge of her shirt, pulling it down so the lace of her bra shows. “Because I do have some areas that need improvement.” She looks at my erection. “Big improvement.”
“Have I ever told you how much I love you?”
Before she can answer, I’m on her, pinning her in the chair, kissing her with the kind of pounding urgency that makes everything else fade away.
Breaking the kiss, she gives me an intense, smoldering look that conveys deep longing.
I’ve got something long and deep for her, too.
“Who booked this mystery getaway?” she asks with a grin.
“Booked?”
She huffs, as if my answer is expected. The smile drops like Bitcoin after a butterfly flaps its wings. “Yes, booked. You have to reserve plane tickets, a hotel room, maybe parking, restaurant reservations, events...” Droning on, she makes her point with her voice.
“I’ve got it covered,” I assure her.
Cynicism doesn’t look good on Shannon, but by God does she embrace it fully in this moment.
“You’re taking me on a two-day vacation with no plans?”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“Have you scheduled anything?”
“No.”
“Then you have to say that!”
“I have plans.”
“Two days of sex is not ‘plans’, Declan.”
When did I marry an alien?
All the emotion I’m holding back rushes straight to my eyebrows, which shoot up like a Jeff Bezos rocket. “That absolutely is ‘plans.’ A two-day vacation of nothing but sex would be the best plan a man could–”
“You have ideas. Plans are not the same as ideas.”
“What is the difference?”
“One involves actually following through. Operational details like not sleeping in the street on a bench, or–”
“When have I ever made a promise to you and not followed through?”
Relentless when she needs to be, she’s in the zone right now. My words force her to pause and consider.
“Fair enough, but Declan, you can’t just go on a two-day vacation without making reservations. Not one that will be fun, anyway. Our life is too overscheduled to wing it.”
“I never said that was the case.” That is totally the case.
Tilting her head, her eyes sparkle as she watches me, picking through my secrets like an archaeologist at an ancient site. “You’re serious. Two days alone together? No work of any kind? Where were you thinking?”
“Portland. I want to try every coffee shop in the city, but other than that, no. No work.”
“Define ‘try.’”
“Go there and drink coffee. Not schedule meetings and study their espresso machines for efficiency and taste.”
“Can we take the ferry to Peak’s Island?”
“Peak’s what?”
“Peak’s Island! My dad took us there once when we were little.” A wistful softness makes her look so eager, more vulnerable, and oh, so appealing.
“What is it?” I’ll buy the entire island if it makes her look like that all the time.
“It’s a fun little place to go in the summer. Like Nantucket or Martha’s Vineyard without all the snooty rich people,” she says, catching my eye and losing that sweet face to a mortified mask.
I don’t have to say it, but I do. “You mean people like me.”
“No! NO! I didn’t. I meant people like your father.”
“That is the worst save in the history of verbal saves, Shannon. There’s nothing wrong with Nantucket or Martha’s Vineyard, and whatever you don’t like isn’t the fault of monolithic ‘rich people,’ which, by the way–” I gesture at her beautiful chest and, for a moment, forget my point.
“Yes?” her breasts ask.
I shake my head, just slightly. Being overcome with lust for her is still as frequent an occurrence as ever. Add breeding–er, making a baby–to the mix, and I’m essentially a baseball bat in a pair of pants these days.
“But you can’t stand your dad! I thought it would work,” she confesses.
“Wrong. Try again.” At the mention of my father, the antidote to my arousal issue is administered. Nurse Shannon couldn’t have come up with a better cure if she’d tried.
Wait.
Nurse Shannon. Shannon in a white uniform, with a front-zip top, and–
Damn it.
I pull out my phone and start texting AlcheMyAssistant as Shannon’s words die in her throat. I need the best hotel room in Portland for two nights, I text. In less than a second, the autoreply from the app kicks in.
Working now.
With a grin, I stop, then give her a quick kiss. “Settled. Plan activated.”
“You sent someone a text and they’re magically scheduling everything? Do you have a travel agent now?” The tone of relief in her voice makes it clear she thinks I should have professionals running my life.
“Something like that. But better.”
“The only thing better than a travel agent is an assistant.”
“If you say so, dear.” She shoots me a half smile, giving me a knowing look, the joke an older one.
I owe Dave big time. He, of course, can’t know that. AlcheMyAssistant is a lifesaver. Dave was right. Dave deserves a raise. Too bad Dave doesn’t care about money.
How does anyone not care about money? It’s like being asexual. I don’t understand that, either.
“If you’re fumbling your way through the dark with some new system, then that’s great,” she adds.
“Fumbling? I don’t fumble, Shannon.”
“If you say so, dear,” she sing-songs back to me. “When are we leaving?”
“Thursday. Around two. I’ll have Andrew lend us one of the planes.”
“It’s a two-hour drive to Portland, Dec. Let’s just do this the way all the poor people do and use combustion engines with rubber tires that stay on the ground.”
“Why drive when we can fly?”
“Anterdec jets aren’t yours anymore,” she points out. “You can’t assume they’re yours to use.”
“Of course I can.”
I text Andrew quickly. I need a jet for Thursday. Two p.m.
His reply is instantaneous. Have your non-assistant rent you a few hours from one of those jet shares.
Ha ha, I type back. Have the jet ready for us.
No
That’s his entire response.
Little bro has learned well. Mostly from me, because that’s the exact reply I would give him if he made a similar request.
What’s Gina’s number? I’ll arrange it with her.
I get a laughing emoji.
You need an assistant, Dec, he replies. But you need perspective
more. My jet isn’t yours to use.
“You know,” I say slowly to Shannon, finding the emoji with a big middle finger that goes up and texting it back to Andrew, “let’s drive after all. It’s a pleasant route.”
“Why the sudden change of heart? And how would you know it’s pleasant? You’ve never...” Her eyes trail down to my phone. She smirks. “Andrew’s not letting you use the jet, is he?”
“What? No. He would. He will. I just changed my mind.”
“Since when have you ever chosen driving over flying?” That eyebrow quirk makes my insides scramble for a few seconds. She’s almost flirting with me. We’ve been together long enough for old habits to be filtered out, but not long enough for the dynamic between us to go boring.
“Since you told me you’re more comfortable driving.”
She beams. “You remember that?”
“Of course I do.”
A kiss is my reward. “Thank you. I know you were raised with helicopters and jets and yachts, but it’s all still too much for me sometimes. A good old-fashioned car trip isn’t just nostalgia.”
“It’s your comfort zone. Our vacation is about meeting your needs, Shannon. I want you to be happy.”
“If it’s our vacation, we should both be happy, Dec.”
“Two days alone with you will do that for me. I don’t need a stupid plane to be happy.”
She smirks. Damn. I overplayed my hand.
“Now I know Andrew refused to let you borrow the plane.”
Before I have to come up with an answer, her phone rings. More and more, her phone rings. It’s a sign of the shifting landscape. We’re husband and wife. CEO and COO. We’re equals in every way, but underneath it all, we’re still a man and a woman.
And hopefully soon, a father and mother.
Holding up one finger, Shannon shows me a newly manicured finger, her engagement ring rubbing up against the wedding band I placed on her finger two years ago. I can tell from her side of the conversation that this is a human resources issue, something involving state labor regulations.
I take the moment to text Dave.
Yes, that Dave.
Thanks for the tip about AlcheMyAssistant, I tell him. They’re managing everything.
