I'd moved from the guest room into her bedroom, and over the last several days, we'd been sharing a lot more than just words.
She asked me, “Remember the night I came to your house and told you about the little ceremony I wanted to have? With those pregnancy test strips I bought at Bailey's General Store?”
We were in the kitchen, had just finished cleaning up after dinner. I watched her hold up a little box. It was similar to the one I'd found in her bathroom on Captiva.
I said, “Oh yeah. I remember
that
night.”
She wagged her finger at me, a fun, familiar look in her eyes telling me to follow her to the bedroom. “Well, it's about time you found out if you're going to be a dad again.”
Later, as we made love, windows open, the smell of hardwood, clover, and corn moving through my girl's bedroom, she spoke into my ear: “Are you sure?”
I was thinking of Lake, and Dewey, and of friends who had become more than friends. Key elements came to mind, then key words: family . . . heredity . . . genetics . . .
blood.
I leaned and kissed her, then kissed her again, feeling her hands on me, searching; felt the imperceptible shifting of her legs as she made a wider space and began to guide me.
“I'm sure,” I said.