I kissed her to shut her up, laughing into her mouth and working her pajama pants down her hips. “Wait, wait.” I pulled back, looking at her. “You’re still on the pill, though . . . right?”
“What?” I pulled back, gaping at her. “When did you go off?”
Ducking into her shoulders a little, she admitted, “Maybe a week ago.”
“We’ve had sex in the past week.” I blinked, thinking back. “Like, several times.”
“I know, but I don’t think I’m, like, immediately fertile or anything.”
Even in the face of her illogical confidence, warmth rolled through me. I know I should have been a little annoyed that she did this without any discussion, but I wasn’t. The possibility suddenly seemed so fucking real. We were going to have kids someday. Maybe even someday soon.
Things turned into a blur of laughter and clashing teeth and limbs caught in clothes, but when I had her free enough to step between her knees and press into her, the rest of the world melted into the periphery. It wasn’t really goal-oriented sex after all, it was just . . . being with Hanna. The way I had a thousand times, with a tiny echo of anticipation and excitement that had nothing to do with the way she felt around me or the sounds she made. Her hair brushed over my face when I bent to kiss her neck. Her hands were smooth and sure down my back, gripping my ass. I had watched Hanna go from a glowing, innocent young woman to a confident, assertive powerhouse—and with me she still remained the sweet, wide-open, smiling Plum I fell for more than three years ago.
Hanna collapsed back on the island, staring sex-drunk up at me.
She reached blindly over her head when my phone buzzed again.
“What the hell is going on with your phone? Did you have the time wrong for the call?” Catching it in her hand, she pulled it over her face to read it, keeping one hand buried in my hair.
I felt her go still beneath me, her breath held in her chest.
I pressed a kiss right over her beating heart. “Mmm?”
“You have a . . . few texts from Bennett, and another from Max.”
Hanna made a small sound of refusal and reached down, pressing the phone into my hand. “I think you’ll want to read these yourself.”
“How have I had three babies before this one, and none of my maternity clothes fit?”
Sara tugged at the hem of the shirt and looked up at my face in the mirror, misery written plainly on her expression. The T-shirt fit her well enough in the sleeves, the chest, the width. But it wasn’t nearly long enough: the fabric barely reached past her enormous pregnant belly.
“Because little Graham refuses to be contained,” I told her, kissing the top of her head. “I fear for your ability to sneeze without wetting yourself.”
“That’s been true since Annabel.” She turned, leaning back against the bathroom counter. Her frown turned into a tight smile. “I love you.”
I laughed. This was her new refrain these last few weeks: each time she secretly wanted to punch me, she would tell me she loved me instead.
I didn’t have to ask her to know it was true; I had been told I love you a lot.
My giant-headed babies made her pee when she sneezed: I love you, Max.
We had to ask for a table instead of a booth at her favorite breakfast dive in Hell’s Kitchen because my giant spawn took up too much space: I love you, Max.
Our second daughter, Iris—who was barely two—had already broken her arm once trying to “play rugby” at the park: I love you, Max.
Our life was a jumble of kids and spilled juice and work calls taken in the loo and wiping jelly stains off furniture. But in reality I didn’t fear our even more chaotic future. Sara loved having babies more than she loved nearly anything, and we both seemed to be able to roll with the insanity pretty well. I told her I’d be fine with three. She wanted five. Even as pregnant as she was, she hadn’t yet changed her tune.
Though I might suggest after this boy that we stop at four: for the duration of this pregnancy, Sara had been . . . spirited.
Ezra screeched something at Iris in the other room, and the outburst was followed by a loud crash. I moved to the door, but Sara stopped me with her hand around my forearm.
“Don’t,” she said. “It’s just the Fisher-Price record player. That thing won’t break.”
“How on earth did you know what toy it was?”
She grinned up at me, giving me a flash of my easygoing Petal. “Trust me.” She tugged at the hem of my shirt. “Come here.”
“Why aren’t the kids in bed?” I asked, looking back over my shoulder.
“You can figure that out after you come here.”
I moved closer, bending down to kiss her, letting her tell me how much of a kiss she really wanted. And apparently she wanted deep and lingering, her hands sliding up my stomach beneath my shirt and over my chest.
She moaned happily. “Oh God, you’re better than my best bra. Can you just walk behind me, holding those up all day?”
“You already assigned me to foot rubbing duty.” I kissed her once again, then hummed thoughtfully. “Though I suppose one task is for sitting, the other is while mobile.”
Sara stretched on her tiptoes, wrapping her arms around my neck. “You’re so good to me.”