“Like hell.” He takes off his boxer-briefs, so erect that I tighten at the sight.
“I can blow you,” I offer.
He’s already breaking open my legs with his knees. “I’d rather be inside you.”
Third orgasm, here I come.
His arm stretches towards one of the nightstands. Birth control has made me feel too bloated and too nauseous recently, so I stopped with the pills a couple months ago. I’ve been searching new forms of birth control in the meantime, and we’ve been vigilant about condoms.
Lo opens the drawer but then hesitates and shuts it. No condom.
I frown. “Are we out?”
He shakes his head and kisses my cheek. “Let’s not use it,” he whispers.
My heart thumps. “What?”
“Let’s not use it, Lil,” he repeats.
“I heard that, but I don’t…understand…?” Is he saying what I think he’s saying?
Lo puts his hands on either side of my head and stares right into me. “One more kid,” he says. “Just one more and then we’ll be done. I can get a vasectomy and you can do whatever you need to do.” His gaze never drifts off mine. “What do you think?”
I think this is crazy.
We carefully planned out Luna and Xander’s births. We gave ourselves time between each of our children. We never talked about a fourth. Maybe because there was a silent agreement that four is a big number.
Bigger than we’d ever imagined.
Bigger than us.
But is it?
“Four,” I mutter, expecting chills but only warmth bathes me. What do we expect for ourselves?
No children.
Unhappiness.
Loneliness.
Frequent misery.
No self-worth.
Loveless lives.
No. I think. No.
Loren Hale is on top of me, telling me that we should expect more for ourselves. “We can do this,” he says strongly. “I know we can.”
I smile. “I know we can too.”
He leans in for a kiss, but he teases, stopping a breath away. “We have the perfect name if it’s a boy or girl.”
“What?”
“Keller for a boy,” he breathes. “Kinney for a girl.”
I smile wider into my tears. Julian Keller and Laura Kinney from X-Men comics. Hellion and X-23. His two favorite characters in all of Marvel. Characters that I love immensely out of his love for them. Why we didn’t think of these names for our third baby—maybe because we knew these characters are the most precious to us. And our story wasn’t closed yet.
One more.
“Yes,” I agree to our future, to everything.
His body and lips press against mine with new desperate vigor. He pulls me up into his chest, stretches my leg around his waist, and he’s in me. Thrusting deep like this is where he was always supposed to go.
I cling to Lo.
Our eyes, our bodies, and our souls—they never abandon each other.
< 37 >
March 2024
Manhattan Medical Hospital
New York City
DAISY MEADOWS
I’ve had many theories, but the theory I have today overwhelms all others.
I have a theory that, together, sisters can do extraordinary, miraculous things. People will underestimate us, undervalue us, maybe even forget us, but together, together—we succeed.
About an hour ago, Rose scooted over on her hospital bed, urging me to be beside her, and I am. We lie towards one another, a delicate, precious baby cradled in my arms. Rose post-thirteen-hour-labor is one of the most emotional Roses there ever could be. Tears have been running down our cheeks, and we’re quiet, listening to Winona breathe softly.
Rose gently sweeps her finger across the newborn’s nose. “She looks just like you, Daisy.”
I rub the heel of my palm over my wet face. I tilt my head towards Rose. She tilts hers towards me. And I say, “Thank you.”
Tears cascade harder. For us both. Rose tries to wipe mine with her thumb, and then she kisses my cheek. I love my sisters more than life itself, and what Rose did for me digs to the very core of love. It exists entirely and soulfully within Winona.
I’ll never forget being by Rose’s side during the labor. Holding her hand. How Ryke and Connor were with us. I’ll never forget how much we all cared. We picked out the middle name Briar because we wanted to honor Rose—she cried the day we told her, but not as much as we cry now.
Rose brushes my tears away before she finishes drying her face with the corner of the sheet. “Ryke was fated to be surrounded by women.”
I laugh and rub my nose with the back of my hand. “He’d say thank fucking God.”
Connor and Ryke hear me, just now slipping inside the room, coffee cups in their hands. Their eyes on Winona.
“Why would I fucking say that?” Ryke asks.
I repeat what Rose said, “You were fated to be surrounded by women.”
Ryke smiles one of the most beautiful smiles he’s ever worn, and he says, “I fucking prefer it that way.” He was hoping for another girl.
Rose extends a hand towards Connor, and he places a coffee cup in it. Then his free one slides on her shoulder as he tells us, “This has less to do with fate and more to do with chromosomes.”
“Booo,” I say, my thumb down.
“What my sister said.” Rose sits up and sips her coffee, a hot glare planted on Connor. She never loses her edge, not even after labor. Rose is made of something stronger than the rest of us.
She speaks in hushed French with Connor, both at ease.
I sit up more too, Winona swaddled and content in my arms. Everyone has already held her, even Lily and Lo, who left early. All the kids are having a sleepover at their aunt and uncle’s so they’re excited about today, just maybe not for the same reason as us.
I kiss Winona’s cheek and pass her to Ryke.
He sets his coffee on a chair’s armrest before cradling our baby. I melt at his affectionate, soft expression. He whispers to her in Spanish, and then rocks her back and forth. She nestles towards his chest.
I peek over at the stiff hospital couch. Sullivan, already six-years-old, is conked out, a thin blanket pulled to her shoulders (thank you, Ryke).
“Should we wake her?” I whisper to him.
He glances at Sullivan and grimaces at the thought of disturbing her sleep. It’s our fault she sleeps strange hours, and more our fault that she forces herself awake. “I don’t want to miss anything!” she always exclaims. So when she does actually sleep this heavy, we try not to jostle her awake, but she hasn’t met her little sister yet.
“Let’s give it another five fucking minutes,” Ryke suggests, taking a seat in the chair beside me. Connor is already sitting in the one by Rose.
My older sister asks her husband, “What quote comes to mind now?” She takes another relaxed sip from her coffee.
Connor begins to smile, eyes dancing to each and every one of us. “‘Happiness, knowledge, not in another place but this place, not for another hour but this hour.’”
Rose identifies the quote, “Walt Whitman from ‘A Song of Occupations’.”
Connor says an affirmation in French.
“I fucking have one.” Ryke suddenly captures Connor’s attention. And to Connor, Ryke says, “‘I have learned that to be with those I like is enough.’”
Connor raises his coffee to Ryke, the most tender smile on his lips. “Walt Whitman.”
“Walt Whitman.” Ryke nods.
On Connor’s thirtieth birthday, we discussed poets and playwrights and authors. As we recited his favorite portions from his favorite books, Connor said that he’d always been drawn to Faulkner. He could quote nearly any line off the top of his head like he lived and breathed the words since he was a child.
That day Connor asked Ryke and I to read a few poems.
They were all Walt Whitman, and he said that Whitman fit with us like Faulkner did with him.
Sullivan stirs, so Ryke brings the newborn over to the couch. “Hey, Sulli,” he says softly.
She rubs her eyes and quickly sits up. “Did I miss it?”
“No, sweetie.” He takes a seat beside her. “This is your new sister.”