I haven’t been in the bath long when the door creaks open. Beckham slips inside with a tray of something. The lights in the bathroom are dimmed, creating a cozy glow with the candles I lit before sinking into the warm water.
“Did you miss me already?” I joke, the water sloshing when I sit up.
“I thought you might want a snack.” He sits down on the floor beside the tub, balancing a tray of cheese and crackers on the ledge within grabbing distance for me.
“In the tub?”
“Yes.”
“Beckham.” I try my best to suppress a smile. “You can just tell me you missed me.”
“I didn’t miss you. I wanted to be with you.”
I’m not sure he’s aware, but I think Beckham’s love language is quality time.
“Thank you for the cheese board.” I pick up a cracker and stack a piece of cheese he cut up.
“You’re welcome.”
We’re silent, snacking. I’m sure we’re a sight, me in the bathtub, him sitting on the floor with his long legs stretched out.
I’ve come to crave these small pockets of time with him. It’s a dangerous thing, putting my heart at risk of getting too attached.
I think about what Beckham said, about moving in with him.
It should be a preposterous idea, but I understand where he’s coming from. When the baby gets here, they’re going to need me the most, and I’m going to need help. As the father, he should be the one doing the helping, and he can’t exactly do that if we’re not under the same roof.
I suppose I could look at it as a temporary thing—maybe for only the first year after the baby arrives. We get along surprisingly well. It might not be such a bad thing.
But I’m not going to tell him that yet.
I want to think on it some more to myself, and if I give even a hint that I’m considering it, he’ll jump all over me to do it, and I want to be sure it’s my choice.
The baby moves, a sharp kick. It’s been happening more lately, but Beckham is rarely around when I feel it. With a startled gasp I shoot my hand out, the cheese board he so sweetly put together tumbling to the bathroom floor. I wrap my wet hand around his wrist, tugging his hand into the water and onto my round stomach.
“What the hell?” His question is muffled around a cracker.
“The baby kicked.” I move his hand around my stomach, hoping the baby does it again so he can feel.
“She did?” His eyes light up, and he sits up on his knees so he can better reach my stomach in the water. He puts both hands on me, feeling for himself. “Where?”
I don’t argue with him on the girl thing. I think it’s kind of cute, actually, how certain he is, even if I am jealous my mother’s intuition hasn’t told me one way or the other. Apparently, he wants to be a girl dad.
“Over here.” I show him the spot.
“Get her to do it again.”
“It doesn’t work like that.” I laugh.
I wonder if it’s the laughter that does it. When I giggle, I feel the baby give another sharp jab. Since Beckham’s big hands are splayed out over my entire stomach, he feels it. His lips parting in wonder, awe fills his eyes.
“Lennon,” he gasps. “There she is.” I put my hand over the top of his, watching him experience this. The baby moves again, and he laughs. “Wow, this is amazing.”
It truly is. A miracle.
“That’s our baby.”
A tear spills from his eye. Grabbing me by the back of the neck, he pulls me forward, our lips meeting as water gushes over the top of the bathtub.
Letting me go, he presses his forehead to mine, echoing my words. “That’s our baby.”
A few nights later, on Christmas Eve, I wake up to the sight of blood in the bed.
