The Culmination (27 page)

“Sarah, you’re batshit crazy. Seriously.”

“‘No great genius has ever existed without some touch of madness,’” I say.

“You’re gonna quote Aristotle to justify
that
?” He points. “What the fuck is that exactly? A bowl full of hard-boiled eggs, a fishbowl full of... what the fuck are those things?”

“Tadpoles.”

“
Tadpoles
? And what’s that other thing?”

“Pink and blue marshmallow chicks. Peeps.”

He looks at me like I’m an escaped mental patient.

I laugh. “Get it?
Egg
plus
sperm
equals
baby chicks
,” I say. “It’s a
metaphor
.” I wink broadly.

He touches his fingertips to his forehead like he’s suddenly got a horrible headache. “Because everyone knows the biggest aphrodisiacs in the world are hard-boiled eggs, pollywogs, and marshmallows. Oh my God. I’m married to a total fucking lunatic.”

I laugh. “Oh, please. You are so much crazier than I am.”

“That’s what I’ve been led to believe by you and Josh and all my therapists all these years—but I just realized you guys are all totally full of shit. I’m totally sane compared to you.”

I giggle. “It’s a grand gesture, baby. I know how much you love your grand gestures and metaphors.”

“Baby, I love
cool
metaphors.
Intelligent
metaphors.
Poetic
metaphors. Not
lame
-
ass,
bizarre metaphors.”

“It’s not lame. It’s funny. Maybe a little bit quirky.” I flip my hair. “But mostly adorable. You know, kinda Julia-Roberts-ish.”

He doesn’t react whatsoever.

“Yes? No? What?”

He shakes his head.

“What? What are you thinking? You’re leaving me hanging here.”

He can’t suppress his huge grin anymore. He kisses me on the forehead like I’m a puppy and then takes my face in his hands. “I’m thinking I love you more than life itself. I’m thinking I’ve got a raging boner. And I’m thinking that, in the future, you should leave the grand gestures and metaphors to me, weirdo.”

“Well, jeez.” I twist my mouth. “It seemed like a really cute idea in my head.”

We both burst out laughing.

“God, I love you, Sarah.” He kisses me.

“Well, that’s good. Because you’re about to make a baby with me. Are you still game now that you’ve seen my metaphor?”

“Fuck yeah.” He laughs. “As it turns out, I’ve got a boiled-egg-tadpole-marshmallow-chick fetish. I should have told you before now, but I was just too embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed to tell me? Your beautiful intake agent? Oh, I’ve read about much weirder fetishes than pollywogs and marshmallow chicks, baby. There was this one guy who wanted to make women ‘surrender’ so he could ‘become
God.
’” I roll my eyes. “What a cocky-asshole-motherfucker
that
guy was. “

He grins.

“Okay.” I exhale. “Baby-making time, then?”

“Fuck yeah. Baby-making time.”

“Coolio Iglesias.”

He laughs. “Get on your back.”

“Just a sec. Tell your boner to hang on. I’ve got a song cued up.”

“Make it
Radioactive
by Imagine Dragons. Because this boner is
radioactive,
baby. It’s
nuclear.
”

“No, I’ve got something else. Something perfect.”

“Well, hurry up. This boner wants to
bone.
”

“I’m hurrying. Hold onto your socks. Or onto your boner, I guess.”

I turn to glance at him and the cocky bastard is holding onto his boner like a fire hose, grinning at me.

“Your hands are making me jealous,” I say.

“Good.” He strokes himself. “So hurry up already.”

“Genius cannot be hurried.”

“No hip-hop,” he barks. “I will
not
make a baby to hip-hop. I don’t care how smoking hot you are—or how many pollywogs and marshmallows you tempt me with.”

“Duh, Jonas. I want you to
ejaculate.
Not throw up.” I continue scrolling through the songs on my laptop, looking for the song I’ve been dying to play for him—the song I’ve been listening to nonstop while he’s been gone. I find the song. “Okay. Ready, big boy?”

He nods.

“I Knew I Loved You” by Savage Garden fills the room and all humor instantly evaporates between us.

“I don’t know this one,” he says softly. He listens for a long minute. “I love it.”

“Listen close, love.” My heart is beating out of my chest. Giving musical valentines to Jonas is one of my all-time favorite things to do. And right now feels like the most momentous musical valentine I’ve ever given him.

He sits quietly, listening.

I crawl back onto the bed and spread myself out, waiting for him.

Every word of this song belongs to Jonas and me, and listening to this song while looking at his muscled, hard, naked body is doing amazing things to me.

After a moment, he climbs over to me and begins gently tracing the curve of my hip with his fingertips. “Thank you,” he says.

“You’re welcome.”

His fingers glide gently over my hipbone. “We’re really gonna do this?”

I nod. “Yup.”

He kisses my
OAP
tattoo. “I’ve never had unprotected sex before.” He kisses my hipbone. “I’ve always thought a fate worse than death was getting myself tied for eternity to some woman I didn’t give a shit about.”

I bite my lip. My crotch is suddenly pounding mercilessly.

“And now, here I am, wishing I had more than one eternity to be tied to you.”

My heart leaps. “There you go again. Have you sent that résumé to Hallmark yet, baby?”

“It’s on my to-do list.” He touches between my legs.

“I love you so much, Jonas.”

“I love you, baby.” His hard-on twitches. His eyes are smoldering. He rests my calves on his shoulders and mounts me, collapsing my thighs into my chest as he leans into me. “I was born to love you, Sarah Faraday,” he says, burrowing deep inside me.

I touch his face, suddenly overwhelmed with emotion and pleasure all at once.

“My sweet Jonas
,
” I breathe. “
Todo mi mundo.
”

Chapter 23

Jonas

I stroke Sarah’s unconscious face, trying to think of something new to tell her. I look around at the monitors next to her hospital bed for inspiration, but I’ve got nothing. “Let’s see, baby. Hmm. What should we talk about now?”

The song playing on my computer is “Sky Full of Stars” by Coldplay. It’s the same song I’ve been listening to on a near-constant loop for the past four days, ever since I forced myself to stop listening to that Death Cab for Cutie song about following Sarah into the dark. It’s the song that inspired me to run out to a tattoo parlor two days ago, just when I was about to lose my fucking mind. It’s the song I want to be playing when Sarah finally wakes up and smiles at me. If ever. The doctor says Sarah could bounce back at any time, or, on the other hand, not bounce back at all. Either way, I haven’t dared turn the music off. Or leave her side.

At some point soon, though, I’m going to lose it. I can feel it. If not emotionally, then physically. I’ve never been so sleep-deprived in all my life. I can’t think straight anymore. And my body is sore and stiff and aching. But fuck me if I’m going to lie down on a cot at the exact instant Sarah opens her eyes, looking for my face.

Or, worse, at the exact moment she leaves me for good.

Either way, I want to be the one sitting here, holding her hand.

Either way.

There’s only one visitor allowed in the surgical intensive care unit at a time, no exceptions, and by God, no matter what happens, when the definitive moment comes, whichever one it is, that one visitor’s gonna be me.

And so I sit. And wait. And listen to my Coldplay song. And talk to my wife. And squeeze her hand. Day after mind-fucking day. For four days, Sarah’s been in a near-constant, deep slumber, a quasi-coma, her blood pressure critically low, her heart rate shockingly slow, her body struggling mightily to overcome the horrific blood loss and complications she suffered after that first horrible night. The worst night of my entire life.

Blood on the sheets.

Sarah’s opened her eyes and stared at me blankly several times these past four days—she’s even spoken to me briefly, too—and each time, I’ve practically choked on my heart with excitement and relief. But each time, she’s quickly slipped away again, leaving me more bereaved than ever, certain I’d just witnessed Sarah’s last words.

“I think I’ve literally run out of things to say, baby,” I say softly, holding her hand. “I’m gonna stop talking for a full year after you finally wake up. I’ll have nothing left to say.”

I’ve told Sarah everything I could think to say about Sunny and Luna—about how beautiful they are and how much they both look like their mother. About how distinct their personalities are, already. About how they make me believe in God again. I’ve told her about my future plans for Climb and Conquer, for what it’s worth—I guess just to fill the silence, if nothing else, because right now, none of that fucking matters. I’ve told her every single one of my happy childhood memories (which didn’t take long), including the story of how my mother and I baked cupcakes for Josh’s birthday, at my insistence, because I didn’t grasp the concept that Josh and I shared a birthday.

I’ve told Sarah about the time Mom, Dad, Josh, and I decorated a Christmas tree together, not the one in the grand entrance of the house (because that tree was always designed to impress people), but a smaller tree in our family room in the back of the house. The one just for us. I told her about how Mom was singing Christmas songs at the top of her lungs the whole time we were decorating, and how she let Josh and me make the ornaments and put them anywhere we wanted, even though we were train wrecks. I’ve got a photo of that hideous tree, with Josh and me standing in front of it in our footy-pajamas, the ornaments all bunched up on the bottom branches.

I’ve dug so deep into my memories these past four days, I’ve even told Sarah about the time my dad took nine-year-old Josh and me fly-fishing in Montana with Uncle William and we actually had a fantastic time—a memory I didn’t even realize I had ’til now.

“Damn it, baby,” I say quietly. “Do you really expect me to keep holding up both ends of our conversation?” I run my hand through my hair and exhale. “I always rely on you to keep me talking.”

Her mouth twitches.

I exhale. “Please come back to me, baby.” I touch her cheek for what seems like the millionth time today. “I love you so much. I need you.”

Her eye twitches.

“Sarah?”

She rustles.

“Sarah?”

Sarah’s eyes flutter open.

My heart slams against my sternum. “Sarah?”

“Jonas,” she says softly.

“
Sarah
.” My pulse is pounding so loudly in my ears, I’m not sure I’ll be able to hear Sarah’s voice if she speaks again. I try to sound calm and reassuring. “Hey, baby.”

“The babies?”

“Two little girls.” I’ve told her this before. Oh, God, my heart is slamming in my chest. “And they’re so beautiful.”

A weak smile spreads across her pale face. “They’re okay?”

I nod. “Sunny and Luna.”

“Sunny?”

This is the longest she’s stayed with me. And by far the most she’s talked. My heart is racing. “Yeah. Blame Josh. Marisol became Sunshine, and then Josh started calling her Sunny, and it stuck. Now everyone calls her that. Even your mom. She’s just... Sunny.”

One side of her mouth curls up.

“Josh did it. Blame Josh.”

Sarah grins. God, she’s so fucking pale. “I love it.”

“It fits her to a tee—wait ’til you see her. She’s a little light. And Luna is already hilarious.”

“Healthy?” Her voice is the softest of whispers.

I grab her hand and kiss it. I lean down and kiss her lips. “Yeah. Tiny but healthy. They just got off their ventilators. They’re breathing well.”

She melts with relief.

I kiss her lips again. “Sarah, I love you so much. I’ve been so worried.” My voice is cracking so I swallow hard to contain myself.

“The babies are gonna be okay?”

“Yeah, they’re gonna be okay. And so are you.” Another wave of emotion threatens to rise inside me, but I stuff it down.

“Is Luna our Crazy Monkey?”

I nod. “Yeah.” I bite my lip. “She’s my mini-me. I’ll apologize to her when she’s older.”

She smiles.

Tears suddenly fill my eyes. Shit. I didn’t want to do this.

“Jonas.” She closes her eyes, obviously fatigued.

I can’t hold back anymore. I lean down onto her chest and clutch her to me.

She runs her hands through my hair.

“Don’t leave me,” I whisper fiercely.

She makes a cooing sound.

“You’re gonna be fine,” I say. But I’m not sure if I’m reassuring Sarah or me.

A nurse bolts into the room and immediately begins checking Sarah’s vital signs. I get up and pace around the room, simultaneously electrified with hope and filled with inexplicable dread. Is she really here to stay this time? Or will this be the last time I get to talk to my wife?

“Can I see the babies?” Sarah asks the nurse.

“As soon as the doctor gives the thumbs up. You’re gonna need to stay in bed for another day, I’m sure.”

Sarah nods.

“In the meantime, why don’t I grab your mother from the waiting room? She’s been begging to switch places with Jonas.” She flashes me a look of chastisement.

I’m suddenly slammed with the most intense sensation of
déjà vu
I’ve experienced in all my life. Holy fuck, I’ve lived this
exact
moment before—and I know precisely what happens next: Gloria bursts into the room, throws herself onto Sarah’s prostrate body, sobbing, and promptly packs Sarah into her car to recuperate, without so much as a backward glance at me.

“No,” Sarah says to the nurse, her eyes fixed on me. “I want my Jonas.” She pauses. “My sweet Jonas.” Her face softens. “My mom can wait.”

My heart is bursting out of my chest. I know I should reply, “No, it’s okay, Sarah. Let your mom see you.” But I don’t say it. I don’t say a word.