Chapter 49 Ace
Ace
Arlo’s stirring. He’s not in full-on crying mode yet, but it’s coming. We’ve been home two weeks now, and I’ve learned all of his sounds.
The only problem is, once you learn the current ones, he’s on to some different ones. New cries drop every other day, it seems.
But that’s a good problem to have.
I slide out of bed and get my son out of the bassinet. I go into the nursery to change him, and once he’s nice and dry, I cradle him until he scrunches that little face up and starts to wail.
“Alright, little man. Let’s go wake up Mommy.”
I wait as long as I can to wake her for feedings. That girl is exhausted, I can tell. But she doesn’t complain. She just does what needs to be done.
In this situation, that’s really all I can ask of her.
When Arlo came out, I had a panic attack. I don’t think Raya even noticed, and for that, I’m thankful. The birth took me back to when Elijah was born and the joy that followed, then the immediate chaos, followed by the realization and the pain.
The whole time Raya was in labor, I was waiting for the worst to happen. I was lowkey working myself up for it. But everything was perfect.
Almost everything.
But she’s trying.
When we get back to the bedroom, Raya’s already sitting up. Her hair is falling out of her bonnet, her t-shirt is twisted halfway around her body, and her eyes are puffy. But she’s ready to go. My baby is a trooper.
“You ready?”
She nods, pulls her arm through her t-shirt, and exposes her breast.
I make the transfer, and it feels like it always does—like I’m handing over something sacred. It’s almost ceremonial. I’m sure she doesn’t see it that way, but that’s okay. I’m sentimental enough for both of us.
The moment he’s in her arms, he roots instinctively. She guides him to her nipple with practiced ease.
I lean against the dresser and watch.
Her shoulders relax as soon as he latches. His little hands curl into her shirt, grabbing tiny fistfuls of cotton. I hear him swallowing, chuckling to myself at how greedy he is. He’s almost growling.
“You look like a pro,” I say softly.
She glances at me with a tired smile. “I’m getting the hang of it.”
Then she does something she never does. She looks down at Arlo, and when she does, her expression changes. Her face softens in a way I don’t often see with her. She looks…unguarded.
“He looks just like you,” she says, almost in a whisper.
“Nah. He has your nose and lips.”
She tilts her head thoughtfully. “Maybe he’s the best of both of us.”
“I think so.”
She starts crying. I rush over, my eyes searching for the source of the problem. That’s always my first instinct—find the problem and solve it.
“What’s wrong?”
She sniffs, running her fingers over his little curls. “I think I love him.”
That lands heavy on me. I swallow the lump in my throat to ask, “How do you know?”
She keeps her gaze fixed on Arlo as she answers. “Because now I feel the same way about him that I do about you.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What way is that?”
Her eyes meet mine. “Like I would kill for him,” she says calmly. “Like I would die for him.”
“Got it.” I let out a small laugh before I can stop myself.
“What?”
“Nah, just…the way you love. It’s like your love language is death.”
She snorts softly. “Shut up, Ace.”
“I’m fucking with you.” I sit next to her, wiping a tear from beneath her eye with my thumb. “I love the way you love me. If you love him as much as you love me, he’s gonna be a very lucky little boy.”
She shifts slightly and winces. “Did you know your son tore my coochie from end to end?”
“I saw Dr. Bernard stitching you up. It was hard to look at.”
“Yeah, well, it’s harder to feel it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“My push present better be fucking amazing.”
“It is,” I say. “I hired a cleaning lady, a chef, and a night nurse for when I go back to work.”
She stares at me. “That’s all?”
“Damn. Nah, something else is coming.”
“What is it?”
“Let’s just say it’s three carats.”
“I better like it.”
“You will,” I say. “It’s beautiful. Which means it’s worthy of you.”
Arlo unlatches, full and milk drunk. Raya lifts him to her shoulder and pats his back gently. He burps like a grown ass man, making us both laugh.
She lays him back in her arms, cradling him, her eyes fixed on his little face. “I love you,” she whispers to him.
Then she looks at me. “I really do.”
I can tell she’s surprised. I can’t imagine what it must be like for her to be so out of tune with her own emotions, but this is progress. I’m proud of her.
“I believe you,” I say, and it’s true.
I do.