asleep. I can’t hear the TV, which is what I expected to hear.
I find her passed out on our bed, her face buried in her pillow. When I wake her, it looks like she cried herself to sleep. Her puffy cheeks and eyes give it away.
She scrambles to a kneeling position and throws her arms around my neck. “Oh my God, you’re okay!”
“Fuck, angel,” I say, wrapping my arms around her. “You cried yourself to sleep with worry?”
Her arms stay tightly around me for another few moments before she lets me go and meets my gaze. “No, I cried myself to sleep because we fought and I felt like shit afterwards. And because I felt like you were an asshole to me, but maybe let’s not go over that again because I can’t tell at this point whether it’s the drugs making me think that or whether you really were.” Her eyes roam my face and I wait for her response to the bruises and swelling. She surprises me, though, when all she says is, “That looks sore.”
“Yeah, it is.”
She stares at me for a beat but doesn’t say anything else. I’m not sure if I wish she would throw me a thousand questions over it or not. At least when she’s throwing questions, I know what she’s thinking; when she’s silent, I’m left wondering what crazy thoughts she may be having.
“It’s time for your shot,” I say.
She nods. “Tonight I want you to tell me your favourite boy and girl names out of all the names we’ve talked about.”
I knew this question was coming. Ten points to me for anticipating it and having an answer ready.
I jerk my chin. “You get ready; I’ll get the shot.”
When I come back with the needle, she’s sitting in the armchair in the corner of our bedroom where she always does her shots. I kneel in front of her while she pulls her T-shirt up. As I pinch her tummy and inject the needle, I say, “My favourite names are Chelsea and Oliver.”
Her face fills with a smile. “I didn’t think you’d know your favourites.”
“Good to know I can still surprise you.”
“What about middle names?”
I should have known that was coming. “I don’t think we need middle names.”
“Bullshit.”
I finish the injection and dispose of the needle in the sharps container. “I’ll have to get back to you on the middle names.”
She leans forward, her eyes lighting up and her voice softening as she says, “We’re going to make a baby in a couple of days.”
I place my hands on her thighs. “Yeah, baby, we are.”
“I don’t like fighting with you.”
“I don’t like it either.”
Her forehead rests against mine and she clutches my T-shirt. “This has been so much harder than I ever imagined. I hope we never have to go through it again.”
“I thought you wanted two kids.”
She lifts her head to find my eyes again. “I did. I do. God, I don’t know anymore. All I know is my mind’s a mess. The messiest it’s ever been, and some days, I can’t think straight enough to even know whether you’re being an asshole or not, let alone to think about doing this all over again.” She pauses. “How many kids do you want?”
If she’d asked me this before we started IVF, I would have said two. Now, I’d be the happiest man alive to have one child. I’m not keen to watch Birdie go through this again. “I just want to be a dad, and I only need one kid to do that. If you want more than one, I’ll stretch to two, but don’t ever ask me for three.”
Her smile washes over me. “I love you, Winter.”
“I love you, too.” Those three little words don’t come close to describing what I feel for Birdie. Even when she’s fighting with me, I still feel more love for her than I can verbalise. I agree wholeheartedly that this IVF cycle has been harder than I imagined. I was prepared for a hard time, but when you’re watching the woman you love and would die for go through what Birdie’s gone through, and you’re unable to take any of the burden, the word “hard” is lacking. I too hope we never have to go through it again.
13
Birdie
* * *
“Birdie,” Winter says as I turn up the TV in our private room in the IVF clinic. “Lie down and take some deep breaths.”
“No,” I say, wondering if he’s right. Maybe I do need to take