Page 41 of Carver
I wriggle my toes for Ellie, and she screams, smashing her hands down on the blanket, rooting around to try and find them.
“Sorry I’m up so late.” I’m half embarrassed, but a little freaked out that I fell asleep so quickly. One second, I was with it, and the next, there was nothing until I opened my eyes.
I’ve never slept like that.
Ever.
“It’s not that late. I just got her dressed and made some tea.”
“Have you had breakfast?”
“You’d know if Ellie hadn’t. Hungry babies aren’t overly quiet.”
I sit up, meaning to curl my back against the headboard and reach for Ellie, but a jolt of pain in my right shoulder takes my breath away. My hand shoots there to try and ease it out. I don’t sleep on my right side, but something must have been a little off.
Bronte has her hand over mine immediately. “Lean forward. Let me massage out the knots.”
She’s so eager to help that I can’t be my normal asshole self and try not to let her. I need to leave that behind. That attitude about not having any weaknessis the only weakness.
Bronte’s hands are magic. She finds the source of pain, which feels like it’s my entire shoulder. She uses her fingertips, her thumbs, and her fists, all while playing peekaboo over my shoulder with Ellie. She’s forgotten all about my feet in favor of babbling away while she tries to figure out what her mom is doing.
I watch Elowen closely, making sure that she doesn’t get any wild ideas about throwing herself off one side of the bed or the other. She stays right in the middle, but I have my hand ready just in case.
Bronte kisses my shoulder while she works lower, her hands kneading my bicep. Am I mortified that she’s touching this part of me that doesn’t work properly and no longer looks or feels like the other side? Yes, but I can practically hear myself admitting that to Dravin and him telling me that shit is all in my head, and that’s all it is. Shit. Intrusive fucking thoughts. I need to learn how to think them and just let them go. Think it, feel it, acknowledge it, but ultimately breathe out and just let it beso what?
Will I let my face and my arm make me less of a father?
If there was anything wrong with Elowen, would she be less of a daughter?
Even thinking that makes me want to roar with rage and fight the universe against anything ever happening to her, but I can also understand better how the people who love me see me.
That’s the short answer. I need to just get the hell out of my head.
It’s easier when Bronte sinks her teeth lightly into the junction between my shoulder and my neck.
“Bron,” I complain half-heartedly.
Her parents are very affectionate with each other without being gross about it. They’re not afraid to hold hands or give each other a hug or a kiss, or light touches on the arm or the back throughout the day. I found it strange earlier on, when I was still so new to touch and love in general, but now I just find it inspiring, that two people can know each other for so long and never lose that will to be with the other.
She studies the side of my face that I used to hate her seeing. “Everything the surgeon did is incredible, he’s an artist.”
I turn my face and kiss her, deeper than I did last night, until it hurts a little, but just a little. I don’t push it. Even so, Bronte still has that dazed look of a woman who was just fully kissed.
“What would you like for breakfast? Eggs? An omelette? Grilled cheese? A shower?”
“Is that a not so subtle hint?”
“I think we both know that I’m mad attracted to you no matter what. Sweat? Stone dust? Dirt? Yes, please. I’ll have that and a second helping.”
She scoops up Ellie after just dropping that on me. I’m rock hard and have to somehow get out of this bed in just my boxers without it being apparent. What age do children startactuallyremembering things? Thinking about my hard-on problem only brings back all the vivid sensations from last night. I get a pretty vivid image of Bronte splayed out on the kitchen table while I made a late-night snack of her pussy.
And seriously, what the fuck, because I never think about things in those terms.
“Do you want an omelette?” Bronte’s shy smile is one hundred percent,I know exactly what you’re thinking.
Elowen does that thing where she’s trying to figure out exactly what an omelette is. I’m learning what baby contemplation looks like. She decides that it must be a good thing, because she nods and waves her hands in the air like she’s at a rock concert and her favorite song is starting.
I nod, digging down at the side of the bed for my discarded jeans from yesterday. They’re not there, but Bronte walks over to the dresser and snatches them off the top for me. She’s folded them to perfection.
