Part 34 (1/2)

”All right, Alieya. On the next contraction, we're going to get his head out, okay? Big push,” the midwife tells me, and I swear if she tells me ”big push” again, I'm going to knock her out. What the h.e.l.l kind of pushes does she think I'm doing?

I convinced Maverick to not find out the baby's s.e.x. He man-pouted for, like, a day, but has since gotten over it. He does like that the midwife always says ”he,” hoping that she knows something he doesn't.

Mav gently unlatches my claws from his thighs and takes my hands in his again. I lean my head back against him, face raised to the ceiling and eyes closed. The miniscule minutes between contractions are supposed to be for rest according to the midwife, but even in this tub and after hours of labor, Mav smells amazing. If inhaling his scent is considered resting, then I'm doing well.

He's made a full recovery. The scars are still there, of course. They'll always be there. But now when I see them, I'm not only reminded of the accident, our weeks spent in the hospital, and the months of physical therapy. I also remember our determination, our sacrifices-our love. The crash made the cuts, but those things created the scars.

Scars aren't the sign of pain. They're the sign of healing.

A few months after the accident, Maverick contacted Arlo's family. Arlo, the man who fell asleep and crossed the yellow line. The man who didn't survive. He was thirty-six, married, and had two children, ages six and eight.

Maverick and I started college funds for their children. We will see to it that Josie and Jorje are well cared for.

Maverick kisses my cheek. ”I love you, you know that, right?”

”Mm-hmm.” We're in this life together.

I feel the burn of the next contraction. Determination fuels me, and I lean forward. The midwife says something to me, but all I catch is ”push hard.”

I do, and I scream, push, and scream again before I fall back against my husband. He's there for me, like he'll always be there for me. I trust that.

”Good, good. The head is out, so the next push will be the shoulders. You can do this, Alieya. One more time and we're done, okay?”

We?

I blow the word out, erasing it from my mind. The only we I want to think about is Maverick, our little one, and me.

A few months after my graduation, Maverick and I opened Tangled Hearts Gallery. It's my home away from home now, the place I go to both relax and go crazy. Crazy with painting at least. I specialize in watercolors, but teach oils and mixed media as well.

The last cla.s.s I held was a pregnancy cla.s.s, where couples came and painted about a related topic each week. Last week's topic was ”Fear of Labor.” It's been my best-attended cla.s.s to date. I've already put an ”After Baby” cla.s.s on the schedule.

My art is displayed, of course, but my students' work is also. It's a collaboration of styles, skill, and color. I even have a room with paintings done by children, one as young as six.

I'm happier than I ever thought possible. Yeah, I've said that before, and I'll probably say it again. Because life changes, I change, and my expectations for myself change. As of now, all of my dreams have come true.

Together, Maverick and I are making new dreams.

”One more big push, okay?”

Big push. I'll give her a big push.

But I listen, because I want to see my baby. I need to cradle my precious newborn in my arms and hear the little cry I've imagined for so, so long. I hope he has Maverick's eyes.

And Maverick's smile. I really hope he has Mav's smile.

Maverick quit his job at the firm and got a new one at a smaller, less-demanding partners.h.i.+p closer to our new suburbia home. A few months ago, he even led his first case in court. And the best part? He's home by six almost every night and rarely goes in on the weekends.

The inklings of the next contraction sizzle in my abdomen. I bear down, squeeze Maverick's hands, and wail out my final cries. I feel the baby slip out the rest of the way, and the pain immediately stops when I hear the sound I've been longing for.

”It's a boy.” The midwife holds him up, and my heart breaks in the most beautiful way.

Our son.

I'm crying with him. I'm laughing too. The midwife hands him to me, and I press the tiny bundle against my skin. Maverick circles his arms around both of us and kisses me, reverence and pride creating moisture in his eyes.

”He's perfect, Alieya,” he murmurs. ”Like his mother.”

I take back what I said earlier. I'm not happy; it's not a strong enough word. I'm in a state of joyful bliss.

Brighter than b.u.mblebee yellow.

”Hey, there,” I say, stroking my finger down his tiny cheek. ”Zachary Finn Tavare.”