Page 22 of Light

Incinerated as soon as the contraction goes on.

And on.

And on.

And my hope for relief is incinerated along with the biological dynamite charges that explode everywhere through my body—but most horrifically, south of my navel. Yeah, including the TNT stick between my thighs, feeling clamped into a merciless medieval torture device. It’s one of those cock cages with retractable spikes on the inside, except karma’s decided to ignore the “retract” lever. How I wish I could write off the imagery as melodrama, but it’s not. This shit is real. In the last three years, I’ve become an expert on pain, from the little smirk between level three and four up to whatever exists after the sobbing red guy at ten. This isn’t my goddamned imagination.

A conclusion leading me to an inevitable, incredible recognition.

I’m connected to her. I mean connected.

No. Beyond that.

Not just feeling every beat of her heart, or absorbing the Fahrenheit of her blood, or savoring every word that emanates from our son’s awakening spirit.

Beyond all of that.

Much further beyond.

Our baby hasn’t just become a product of our DNA. He’s the fusion of it, in every sense of the word. A product of the bond that’s melded the two of us, in ways that have never been humanly possible. But because of this impossibility, never making me feel more human.

Yeah, right down to every damn birthing pain.

Pain I’m not about to trade away, despite how Cal locates the ibuprofen I keep in the center console and frantically passes the bottle back.

But after I bat it away, sending it flying into the front windshield, he slams on the right blinker and declares, “Just saw a sign for a hospital off the next exit. I don’t know exactly which one—”

“And I don’t care,” I retort.

“But—”

“No hospital.” With perfect timing, the contraction wanes. I’m able to bolt him with a commanding glare via the rearview. And I mean bolt. My irises are the color of liquid steel, my brows hunched into low thunderheads. “We can’t afford a shred of unwanted attention, let alone what this might bring.”

As if Bean is listening—and by now, I truly believe that’s the case—he shoves hard enough at his confines to ignite a counter-protest from the skin he’s stretching. Once more, every one of my pores groans and burns in alliance with Emma’s, and I fantasize about being able to unzip my skin and then step out of the offensive stuff, leaving the burning husk behind.

Another thought my son is bizarrely in sync with…

As he kicks hard enough to turn Emma’s stomach into an orb as blazing and hot as the sun she got her name from.

Which means the front of her dress is now a slice of toast.

All right, so now I’m exaggerating—unless “toast” suddenly got redefined as a few scraps of smoked stretch fabric and a handful of charred sequins.

“Oh, holy shit!” Cal’s exclamation, spurted as soon as the smell of barbequed fabric has him swiveling a curious glance back, pretty much says it all. While I’m beyond tempted to add my echo of it to the air, I practically bite my own tongue off to abstain—an effort made easier as soon as I cast my own gaze back down to my wife’s face. She’s golden, glistening, gorgeous, and freaked the hell out. That’s my cue to man the hell up.

“Velvet.” I curl my grip tighter into hers. With my free hand, I caress the side of her face. My fingers slick through a layer of liquid gold. I’m unsurprised. If I had a creature inside me already capable of cognitive thought and the words that went with it, I’d probably be sweating a little too. “It’s going to be all right, baby. I promise.”

She swallows hard. Attempts an answering smile. “I know.” As she rasps it, she guides our joined hands in a gentle circle over her bared belly. “And so does he.”

No sooner does she finish saying it than her whisper is joined by another voice once more. The completion of our circuit. The new fire in our family.

Dada say all right. So we all right.

At once, I’m flooded with more feeling. Engulfed in emotions. Overtaken by such a cacophony of reactions, I’m shorted out before I can pick one to commit to. So what does that make me now? Nothing but a slack-jawed, mute-mouthed clod, forming my mouth around nothing but air and then releasing more of the same. But not completely. When Emma pushes her fingertips into my cheek, her fire combines with the wet tracks there, making me newly conscious of the amazement that’s taken liquid form too. I don’t make a single attempt to swipe the tears away or to hide the ones that spill out right on top of them. This moment is a miracle. This child is our miracle. He’s already worth every ounce of the hell I had to pay to make him happen.

And, I learn with my next breath, the hell I’m still having to pay.

As the torture clamps us both again.