Page 21 of Light

He chuffs. “Who do you think helped my mom push out Tosca and Jina? Not their asshole sperm donor, that’s for sure.” He shoots me a grin while checking behind us to switch lanes. “Only I’d just turned fourteen and had to figure all this shit out for myself. When I almost passed out because I hadn’t done anything to take care of myself in ten hours, I finally got the clue.”

So maybe the guy can handle the bullet points.

I only take half a second to indulge the thought before concentrating on my wife again. With a tender nudge, I urge her head up and coax the water bottle to her lips. “You heard the man, Mrs. Richards. Drink up.”

I expect Emma to slip out some snarky one-liner, but my terrified grate seems to move her as if I’ve just whipped out roses and laid them at her feet. Right now, I wish I could handle all of this with nothing but a bunch of flowers. I’m as out of my element as the first few months of learning about my powers—no, even more so because there’s no room for margin here. I’m not out in the middle of nowhere with trees and boulders for target practice. If I make a mistake now, the woman I worship will pay the price.

As well as the miracle of a child we’ve created.

Shit.

Shit.

Shit!

“Hey.” Her soft interjection prevents my panic from gaining root, though she’s nearly out of breath due to chugging practically all the contents of the bottle. But the stuff works its magic, returning some normal color to her face between the glowing splotches due to her stress. “You heard the guy,” she urges with a smile. “Take care of yourself too, you big ox.”

I chug the final swallow of water she left behind. “There.” Then crush the empty plastic and overhand it backward, to join the leather I torched away from the go-bag. “Happy?”

Her smile grows. “Never been happier.” Emma guides my now-empty hand down to the rise of her belly. At once, even the sequins of her dress start vibrating, with the swell underneath seeming to dance to the same excited beat. “And I think Bean agrees.”

Her statement hardly does the meaning justice. My Thor hammer of a heartbeat and my Firebird flame of a throat are solid confirmations—but neither of them eclipses the brilliance that swirls up through me from where my fingers join with Emma’s. The happiness flames along my arm and across my chest, spreading out the rest of my extremities like a thousand racing, raucous comets.

All of them beginning to laugh out one joyous refrain.

Dada’s here!

Dada’s here!

Dada’s here!

“Holy shit.” At least I think that’s what tumbles out of me, though comprehending anything in terms as basic as syllables and words is like asking a baby to comprehend chess.

Bad comparison.

Because in the case of this baby, that might damn well be a possibility.

“Holy shit,” I repeat, twining my hold tighter with Emma’s. As we roam our meshed fingers back and forth across her belly, we share a spellbound laugh when tiny hands and feet from within start following our route. “I—I mean, my stars,” I stammer, grinning wide as her laughter intensifies—though we fall silent together when I’m joined by another voice again. That voice, so happy and innocent and absolute, ringing out from the center of her body…and resonating in the depths of my heart.

Stars, dada? What…are…stars?

“Oh, God,” Emma rasps, and I press my lips into several of the salty rivulets down her cheeks as I funnel my energy inward and then direct that electricity into a silent, electric thought of response.

Stars are just like you, son. Bright. Perfect. Magical. Original.

There’s a tearful gasp in my ear. I tilt toward it, kissing Emma on the lips this time. She’s eavesdropping on our little chat, but I have a feeling it’s not the first time. And dear God, I pray it won’t be the last. We’re a family now—and it hits me that we’ve been so for a while now, so much longer than what most families are blessed with. She and I aren’t just about to “meet” our son. In so many ways, we already have.

I pull back a little from my wife so that my gaze can fully take hers in. Her face, still a sheen of gold-flecked sweat, has never sucked the breath from me harder. Her smile, shaky and still a little scared, has never made the world fade faster.

“A star,” I whisper to her. “Woven to life inside a star.”

She swallows hard. Squeezes my hand. “And given life by a beautiful bolt.”

Our son kicks out his immediate approval on the assertion, followed by a new contraction of the walls around him. Our bean fights back at the bonds, doubling the intensity of Emma’s pain… And, at once, my pain too.

“Holy fuck!” Okay, I’m not imagining this insanity. As my head drops and I bonk foreheads with Emma, I’m given a shred of comfort in the steadiness of her stare, validating I really haven’t just signed up for a lifetime membership in the Worldwide Wuss Collective.

But it’s only a shred.