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“Okay,” I reply, wrapping her up in my arms.
“I want to pretend for a moment like this matters.”
Her exhale is cool against the wet skin of my neck, and I stare at the ceiling as those words run me over like a train. I don’t know if she’s talking about the sex, my seed, which is still buried deep inside her or us.
It doesn’t matter because she’s right—none of those things matter.
No matter how much it feels like they do.
Twenty-Seven
Sadie
Istay in Luke’s bed all night. His body is wound around mine like a shield, and I sleep so soundly that I don’t hear my phone buzzing on the nightstand. It’s Luke who wakes me up and not on purpose.
But when the person lying next to me gasps, it’s hard to stay asleep.
“What is it?” I say, turning toward him. He’s staring at his phone through sleep-dazed eyes.
Without responding, he just rotates the phone toward me. And there on the screen is a bright photo of a newborn baby, wrapped tightly in a blue-and-pink hospital blanket with a tiny baby beanie on her head.
It’s a text from Adam, and below the photo, it reads:
Say hello to Faith Marie Goode. Born at 11:05 p.m. last night.
“Oh my god!” I squeal as I sit upright and steal the phone from him to stare at the picture some more. “She’s so cute and perfect!”
Next to me, Luke is grinning softly at the picture. “She is cute.”
Realizing it’s his phone, I pass it back to him and watch as he types out:
Congratulations. She’s beautiful.
My phone buzzes again, so I reach over to retrieve it. It’s a text from Sage, and when I open it, it’s the same photo and message that Adam sent Luke.
I quickly text back a reply.
Hi, Faith.
I hope everyone is doing well. Congrats to you both!
I’m sure Sage is sleeping, or at least I hope she is, so she doesn’t respond. So, after staring at the perfect picture a few minutes longer, I set my phone back on the nightstand and lie back down on the pillow.
My hand goes to my stomach as the baby does a little karate kick to my rib cage. I don’t know how or why, but I can’t help but feel like he’s a boy. And suddenly, I’m picturing myself sending texts out just like this one.
A cute, bundled photo with a perfect little name so I can show off my baby to the world. It feels so surreal and daunting.
Luke stretches out next to me. As our eyes meet, we don’t say anything for a moment. The weight of what we did last night hangs over us.
Everything between us feels so confusing, but I do know a few things for certain.
First, I know that it won’t be the last time we have sex. It’s obvious to me now that Luke is done holding back and restraining himself from what he wants with me.
Second, I know he’s still leaving. This fling has a shelf life, and it’s in the vicinity of three to four months.
And because these two things are true—that he’ll both have me and not have me, I know he won’t kiss me. That seems to be some unspoken rule of his. Kissing is too intimate and real.
Can I live with this? Do I have a choice?
