Page 44 of Promise

Let’s just give ourselves a break.

He might have meant a break from baby making. I took it as he wanted a break from us. Sex had turned mechanical. Functional instead of intimate. His resentment was present in the way he performed. And I hated how I felt like I was using him.

We’d lost the thunder between us. The strike of lightning. The merest spark was gone by the time he left.

Yet a new flame flickers inside me when I watch him holding Mirabelle.

A candle in a window as a sign of longing, of waiting, of hope.

I don’t dare hope for more from Dart, other than giving me an hour of rest.

One I don’t get thanks to the visions in my head of him dancing with Mirabelle, acting like he’d be the perfect dad.

Three days later, Dart is in the kitchen. The strong scent of bacon sizzling in a pan fills the air.

For the past three nights, he’s collected Mirabelle in the middle of the night, allowing me to catch up on some sleep. With the much-needed rest, I feel clearer lately, more sensible.

No more visions of Dart being Mirabelle’s dad. I’m grateful for his help, but I’m back to thinking he’ll be gone like the wind soon enough.

Still, I can’t seem to help admire the strength in his back as he stands shirtless, another pair of sweats dangling on his hips, and Mirabelle in his arms.

Just . . . fuck . . . those black sweatpants and a baby in his arms. He’s got hot dad vibes happening here, and I quickly glance away from him before he spins to face me.

“Good morning,” he says. Then, he takes Mirabelle’s little arm and waves it at me.

“Morning.” I chuckle before asking him the same question I’ve asked each night over the weekend. “Did you get any sleep?”

Mirabelle should sleep in a bassinet near the foot of my bed, but during the middle of the night wakeups, Dart takes her out of the room. Sometimes, she’s back in the bassinet by morning. Other times, I hear Dart take her downstairs or down the hall to his room.

“Did you?” he counters. His eyes look tired but bright and wild. The man can exist on coffee and four hours of sleep.

“Yeah,” I whisper with gratitude. “Thanks again for that.” He doesn’t have to keep waking in the middle of the night to feed Mirabelle or comfort her, but I truly am grateful for his help right now.

“Did she eat?” I keep a chart on the refrigerator, neurotically marking each time she takes a bottle and how much she drinks.

“Fed her at three a.m. Marked it on the schedule.”

For a second, I’m reminded of a different schedule we kept. A calendar of sorts. Penciling in sex with him. My stomach pitches at the reminder of how hard I pressed him, knowing he’d give me anything I wanted. How the moments I tried to seduce him became unseductive. How less intimate every attempt to get pregnant became.

I stare at his scribbled handwriting that fills a line on the chart.

“Here,” he says. “I need to flip the bacon.” He steps closer to me, almost charging into my space, and while I’m eager to take Mirabelle from him, I’m also hyper aware of his closeness.

The scent of pine and asphalt rushes up my nostrils. His bare skin overwhelming and present.

With Mirabelle in her scrunched body position, like a ball of bliss, Dart tips toward me, and I reach out for her, slipping my hand between Mirabelle and him.

Only, the back of my hand brushes over that firm chest, and sparks crackle and burn up my skin.

I glance up at Dart. His face is close. His eyes wide and focused on mine.

Slipping Mirabelle from him, it feels like I’m moving in slow motion as I bring her to my chest, but don’t step away from him. Her little body is the only thing separating us.

I’m very aware that I’m still wearing my nightgown. The silky chemise, one of three, that I bought myself long after Dart left as a reminder that I’m sexy on my own. I not only deserve underwear that empowers me, like a matching set of lacy panties and bra, but I can have nightwear that makes me feel bold and strong, even though I sleep alone.

And right now, that silky material feels almost too warm, too sensitive against my skin.

Dart’s gaze drops to my lips, and I press mine to Mirabelle’s head without breaking eye contact with him. The instinct to kiss her is too great. The need to tuck her close to me, almost as a shield . . . against him.