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“You do?”

“Yeah, sweetheart, I do. I think you should do everything you want to do.”

Her smile falls, and my heart skips. “But—you want a baby?”

“I want a million babies with you.”

She snorts. “That’s a bit ambitious.”

I tug her into my chest by the curve of her hips, holding her in place to press a slow kiss to lips I’ve been addicted to for years. Lips I’ll crave like a drug until the day I take my very last breath.

“A baby can wait.”

“Can it?” she asks between kisses. “Can you?”

“I can wait for you forever, Faye.”

She smiles against my mouth. “That’s what you always say.”

She squeals as I lift her onto the counter, nipping that sensitive spot below her ear that drives her wild, revelling in her moan. “Baby is on pause.” I pop the button of her jeans. “But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t practice for go-time.”

30

I SEND IT ANYWAY

SEPTEMBER 2015 – 26 YEARS OLD

“They’re all so small.” My eyes pull from the brick wall where Owen and about twenty other tiny humans dressed in their first-day best stand, to look at my wife. Her hands are pressed in the gesture of prayer, touching quivering lips painted a sexy as hell red.

“He’s doing great,” I assure her. “Look at that—” I point when Owen laughs with the kid next to him. “Already made a buddy.”

The bell rings and a big, blue-painted door swings open to reveal the kindergarten teacher we met last week. She smiles brightly at the line of waiting kids, some of whom are now crying. But not Owen. He’s ready for this, my little champ.

“Good morning, kindies!” she calls. “Come on in!”

“Mommy! Daddy!” Owen calls alongside some other kiddos currently waving down their own parents, as if we’re not all cemented to the asphalt beneath our feet, glued to this moment by the strings of our aching, hopeful, proud hearts. “Bye!”

“Oh God,” Faye croaks, but she waves grandly. “Bye, Owen. I love you!”

“Later, little man,” I call, waving my own grand wave.

He toddles into the school, dinosaur backpack fading into a sea of other colors as he disappears from view.

My nose stings. Tears I refuse to let fall prick my eyes.

Where the hell did the last five years go?

“That’s it.” Faye’s voice hits me. “He’s just gone. Just like that. All smiles and excitement.”

“We’ll see him again in six hours.” I pull her into my chest for a squeeze as another tear slides free. Then I begin steering her back to the truck, because although Owen went in all smiles and excitement, there are other kids who aren’t as eager to go into the unknown.

I open the passenger door for Faye as she tells me, “He’s so brave.” Her hand fists over her aching chest. “I miss him already.”

“He’ll miss you, too.”

She stops me before I close the door. “Why does this feel so different than daycare?”

I consider. “I think it’s because he’s growing up. It’s school. Next year, it’s grade one.”