that there was someone to take care of. To fight for. To be there with.
The thing about Luna and me is we’re caregivers by nature. I’m so used to taking care of her and Mom, and she’s so used to trying to save the rest of the world, me included, that we needed someone to give all our extra love to.
Dad almost killed me when he found out I’d impregnated my fiancée on purpose at age nineteen. Luckily, Dixie calmed him down.
Luna is humming a song now. “Enjoy the Silence” by Depeche Mode. There’s a little smile on her face. I wonder if the nugget is a girl or a boy. We keep referring to it as a she, because a part of us knows this baby signifies Mom somehow.
I wonder if the baby is going to have my green eyes or her gray ones.
If it will have her dark, smooth skin and my narrow, full lips.
I hope the baby will know we wanted a child before we even knew he or she was in existence. And that unlike our biological mothers, we would never let him or her go. And I don’t mean after birth. I mean possibly ever. Maybe not even for college. Straight up, we’ll be locking them in their room forever.
Okay, that’s not good parenting. Never mind.
“I thought you hated that song,” I call out to Luna, patting the bed to inform her that her five minutes out of it are officially over and it’s time for round two.
“I do,” she chirps, coming back from the bathroom and diving into bed gracefully.
Our place on Venice Beach is pretty neat. You can actually hear the waves crashing on the shore at nighttime, usually as a backdrop to the sound of tourists laughing and screaming, young people getting shitfaced, and the terrible music street artists play across from our balcony. I love the hustle and bustle outside, though. It reminds me how lucky I am, and that I chose well—staying with the quietest person I know.
“Then why are you singing it?” I pull her close, nuzzling my nose to her neck.
Our hot chests bump into one another. Mine, hard and muscular. Hers, soft and round.
“Because.” She smiles. “Edie loves it, and I love Edie.”
“By the same token, you love anal,” I muse.
“I do?” She cuts a no-bullshit sideways glance my way.
“Yeah. Because I love anal, and you love me.”
“Only on your birthday.” She raises her finger in warning. “Apparently, I only love you then.”
“And on national holidays,” I negotiate.
“You’ve got yourself a deal.”
“Canada’s, too. It’s high time we show them some solidarity.”
She laughs. So do I. I can’t wait for the baby to start kicking and join the party.
That kid doesn’t know how long we’ve been waiting.
How I always wanted them around.
How that day, shortly before Mom died, when I apologized to Luna for going bareback, it was a ninety-nine percent apology. Because I wanted us to have a child.
I wanted us to atone for what our mothers did.
Only Dixie is not the same woman I resented. Maybe she never was. Maybe sometimes we make people monsters in our heads because we can’t understand them.
Maybe we don’t understand them because we don’t try to.
And maybe we don’t try to because we’re scared.
Either way, I’ve stopped being scared. Of love. Of feelings. Of forgiving.
Luna and I have carved each other’s personalities since the very beginning. Needs. Wants. Morals.
And most of all, our love.
I’m wearing a black dress that cannot hide the small bump in my lower stomach. I don’t want to hide it. I’m proud of that bump something fierce. I feel whole while pregnant. I think I’m going to be one of those women who has a lot of children, biological and not biological, but I don’t want to scare Knight by telling him this. He’s not officially twenty yet.
Also, we promised each other to take it one step at a time, and we still need to get married before I pop this nugget into the world or before our parents have heart attacks because our child will be born out of wedlock—whatever comes first.
I’m pacing back and forth behind the stage’s heavy black curtains, knowing they’re about to call my name. That I will get on this stage, and they will ask me questions. And I will answer them. At length. More importantly—with words.
That was part of the contract I signed when I wrote a book about my seventeen years of silence. Silent No More was dedicated