Page 85 of Only ever you-Ana & Byron
Byron snorted from the foot of the bed. “Probably thought it were a bloody launch pad.”
“Hear that? Daddy thinks we’re just an unfortunate launch pad now, sweetie,” she said with a dramatic sigh, waving at the bump.
She was eight and a half months pregnant. Forty years old. Glorious in the way of a fertility goddess in her imagination. Swollen like a watermelon. And exhausted.
And absolutely done.
It hadn’t been a difficult pregnancy. The scans were all fine, the baby healthy and currently kicking as if she was on a rugby trial. But someone-probably that annoying registrar with a rabid interest in bad things happening on scans-had read the report of her first pregnancy and used the termhigh-riskduring an antenatal appointment. And that had sent Byron into a full-blown spiral.
Within twenty-four hours, she’d caught him in bed beside her, awake at 1.00 am lit only by the blue light of his phone screen, furiously googling-
Is it too risky to have a baby at 40?
Can a past spinal injury cause complications in pregnancy?
Can husbands have panic attacks due to wife’s pregnancy?
She’d threatened to throw his phone into the chicken coop if he didn’t stop. But the guilt had sunk its claws into him, deep and suffocating. And she knew him too well-every tight-lipped grimace, every overlong hug, every time he solicitously brought her water with exactly three ice cubes like it was the elixir of eternal life.
Byron hovered like it was a contact sport. And Ana was the ball. She definitely felt like a ball. But she had not spiralled, and was largely unbothered by anything except heartburn and the tragic lack of air conditioning. She had carried on as usual. Writing deadlines. Zoom calls. Telling him to go find something useful to do before he drove her mad.
He had been retired for two years now. His knees had forced the issue, though he'd pretended otherwise. She knew he missed the adrenaline of the pitch, the routine and the banter. In quiet desperation,she’d found him a local youth rugby team affiliated with the Wrexham Rugby Club U16s to coach. It gave him purpose and her breathing space. It occasionally reminded the young ones that legends still lived down winding Welsh lanes. Byron still doomsday scrolled at night but things had calmed down just a tad.
Deaglán was out for count after a morning of collecting bugs of all shapes and sizes.
Byron snorted from the foot of the bed while braving the heat with a tiny pair of boxer shorts which left precious little to the imagination. He had one of her feet cradled in his lap, cotton balls wedged between her toes and a bottle of aggressively purple nail polish clutched like a weapon of war.
“This colour’smint,” he said, dragging the brush with solemn focus. “Royal purple. Warrior queen shit.”
Ana arched an eyebrow. “You meangarishpurple. I look like I kicked Barney the dinosaur in the crotch.”
Ana stretched her arm up, the light catching on the delicate jangle at her wrist. She turned it slowly, watching as the sun winked off the many charms that dangled from her bracelet-one she’d taken to wearing every day now. Byron had added so many over the years-tiny mementos of their life together-that she'd had to start a second one. The latest was an exquisite little silver pacifier, added when Deaglán was born. Just beside it gleamed a tiny silver unicorn, gifted the day they found out they were having a girl.
Her expression softened for a breath, lips curving slightly.
He didn’t look up. “It’s prep. You think I’m lettin’ our daughter turn me into her canvas without practisin’? Nah. I'm gonna be like the Rock, only wi’ hair and better cheekbones. I need to be ready for glitter eyeshadow and sticky lip gloss warfare. You’re the guinea pig, love.”
“Admit it,” she said, smirking, “you’re just learning how to paint by numbers.”
His signature smug grin appeared-dimples and all. “You’re not wrong, Ana girl.”
He kept at it, tongue poking out in concentration like he was painting the Mona Lisa. His curls were damp from the heat, clinging to his temples, and his bare chest glistened faintly with sweat. She was too tired to move, but not too tired to admire him.
She slid her other foot up his thigh slowly, watching as his eyes flicked to hers. She nudged gently, playfully, until her foot pressed lightly against the growing bulge between his legs.
“We’ve got another alien spaceship down here,” she murmured in a put on serious voice, rubbing teasingly. “This might need further exploration.”
He clenched his teeth. “Ana—”
“Oh, don’t be coy. You started it with the purple feet and the warrior queen commentary. Feeling my queen power today”
“You’re gonna regret this,” he grunted, “when your toes end up lookin’ like a bloody aubergine crime scene.”
“I’ll survive,” she whispered, dragging her toes with a little more firmness. “Besides, I like it when you lose focus.”
He tossed the polish bottle onto the nightstand with a thunk. His hand slid up her calf, slow and deliberate. He paused at the waistband of her tights-the same ones he’d helped her into that morning with exaggerated sighs and gentle kisses- while holding her eyes with his intense hazel ones.
“I bloody hate these stupid tights,” he muttered, peeling them down.
