Not So Nice Guy(68)

I understand what she means. We’d be na?ve to think this isn’t a huge step. Our lives are about to change forever.

“Come sit by me.”

I bend my knees so she can fit in the space between my legs. She turns, sits, and leans her back against my chest. My heart thumps against her shoulder blade. My hand wraps around her wrist and I feel her pulse, counting the beats in my head—faster than a hummingbird. I wrap my other hand around her stomach and press there, waiting, expecting. I know it’d be too early to feel anything, but I want to feel something.

“Ian? Do you remember when I dressed up as Hermione for Halloween and you told me I looked like a dweeb?”

I smile and lean my head back against the wall. “Yeah, I tried to kiss you that night.”

“What?!”

“Over by the punch bowl, but it was too late. You’d had like four shots and you threw up on me.”

“Oh my god. I remember feeling sick, but I don’t remember you trying to kiss me.”

I glance down and see there are two minutes left on the timer.

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t all that smooth. You used to make me nervous.”

She laughs like that’s completely preposterous.

“I wonder how different everything would have been if you’d actually kissed me.”

Completely, but I wouldn’t change a thing.

“This is crazy,” she murmurs to herself.

Another minute passes and now there are only seconds before that first test is ready. Sam looks down at the time and her pulse punches through her skin.

“Do you want to look together?” she asks.

“You do it.”

I’m not sure I can stand at the moment.

Time slows to a crawl as she pushes up and walks over to read the test. Things flash through my mind: nursery paint colors, daycare, diapers, pudgy fingers and toes.

It’s a simple, old-school test with two lines for positive and one for negative.

It should take her one second to read it.

The timer starts to beep.

Sam looks down, grabs the test, whirls around, and screams.





Epilogue





S A M

TWO YEARS LATER





“Mr. President,” I say, nodding in deference as Ian hands me the popcorn.

“Madam Secretary,” he responds, equally sincere.

“Ahem, the Speaker of the House needs a refill.”

“Wah-wah-wah-wah.”

We both look down at Violet, who’s pulling up to stand on the edge of the couch. Her chubby-cheeked grin tears straight through my heart.

“Ian, can you believe we’re raising such a genius?”

“Not even a year and a half and she’s already speaking in full sentences.”

In response, she mumbles, “Ma ma ma dog dog.”

Obviously, she’s speaking in some advanced code. Any robot would be able to decipher her speech and come up with solutions to the world’s major crises.

Then she burps and gets distracted by a piece of lint on the floor.

“So wise.” I nod, taking the glass of wine he’s holding out for me before he turns to grab Violet’s cup. “Are you thinking Columbia, Princeton, or Harvard?”

Ian shrugs. “She’ll have her pick of the Ivies, but who knows, she might just join the Peace Corps—or a traveling circus troupe.”

“Let’s not talk about it. It makes me sad.”

“That she’s going to join the circus? I really doubt that’ll happen.”

I reach down and pick her up. All I want is one decent cuddle, but she’s at the age where she wants freedom, room to roam. She wiggles free and goes back to playing on the floor. “It’s just…I don’t like thinking about her growing up. She’s too little to join the circus.”

Ian takes a seat beside me on the couch and tugs me close. I nuzzle into his chest and close my eyes. I can hear the deep breath filling my lungs, my husband’s steady heartbeat, my daughter’s playful babble—all the sounds of a life I couldn’t have dreamed of just a few years ago, mostly because I was busy dreaming about Lieutenant Ian banging me in an army barracks.

“I feel like you’re really homing in on the circus thing.”

I ignore him. “Today she’s babbling at our feet, tomorrow she’s swinging from trapeze bars, traveling the country in a train car.”

“Again, probably not going to happen.”

“Promise me she’ll always stay this little.” I sound desperate.

He rubs his thumb back and forth on my shoulder. “No can do.”

“Promise me she’ll always be a mommy’s girl.”

“Ehhh, is she though?” he teases. “Her first word was Dada—that can’t be a coincidence.”

I have a real, ludicrous urge to cry.

“What can you promise me?! Sheesh, my heart is breaking here.”

He chuckles and reaches over to tip my chin up so my face is tilted toward him.

“Sam…Samwich…Sam and cheese…”

I blink my eyes open. His blue eyes are inches from mine.

“I can’t make promises about the big things, but I can promise you we’ll always watch West Wing on Wednesdays.”