Page 84 of Adrift

I slip out of the bed, trying not to stir Darian awake before walking over to the monitor to turn it off. I don’t want to wake Darian up unless I need him.

Turning the knob, I enter Arman’s room. He’s sitting up in his crib but doesn’t stand like he usually does to greet me, even in the middle of the night.

“Oh, baby boy, what’s wrong?” I whisper, traipsing over to him. I pick him up, already knowing he needs a diaper change, but it’s his heated skin that has me jerking back to look at him. He’s flushed, and I’m sure he has a high temperature.

He wraps his arms around me loosely as I take him to his diaper changing station. After cleaning him up, I put a thermometer in his ear. One-hundred-two point six.

“Oh, sweetheart. You’re burning up.” I hand him his sippy-cup of water, which he takes a few listless sips of before letting it drop to his changing mat.

I debate waking Darian up to tell him, but we’ve talked about what I need to do if Arman is ever sick, and I’m confident he’d do the same thing–give Arman meds and a cold compress. Plus, I’ve read enough to know that if the fever isn’t too high, it needs to be reduced by meds before alerting his doctor.

After taking off Arman’s shirt and leaving him in only his diaper, I pull him into my arms and carry him to his bathroom. I set him down on the counter before finding the fever reducing medicine. After giving him his dosage through the syringe in his medicine cabinet, I wet and wring out a towel.

Pulling him into my arms on his chair, I lay him over my lap and elbow and place the wet towel on his head. Arman whines, trying to take it off of him, but he settles down when I sing him his favorite song.

About twenty minutes later, he’s asleep, his eyes twitching as he breathes deep. My tired eyes trail over his sweet face and the nose he shares with my sister and me. He’s so perfect, my lids pool thinking about him . . . us.

Everything.

There’s a quote by Buddha hanging in my mom’s closet that says, The root of suffering is attachment. It intensifies in my vision as my thoughts carry me from one place to another.

How will I be able to live without seeing this little boy after I move? Will he miss me? How often will I be able to see him? How often will I be able to see his dad?

Will everything change?

Can we even make this work once I’m not physically here?

My heart aches as I think about the eventuality that both Darian and I have avoided talking about. Sometimes I think we’re too new in our relationship to talk about the what-ifs, but I can’t help assess the depth of my feelings, either. Never in my entire life have I felt so completely in love, so attached, to anyone as I do to these two men in my life. They’ve become ingrained in all my thoughts and the reason for all my smiles.

Will they also be the reason for my heart break?

The sun peeks through the blinds in Arman’s room as the birds wake up outside. I haven’t slept a wink, deliberating the realities I know I’m going to face soon enough.

Arman takes a deep breath, settling further into my arms, and I press the back of my hand over his forehead. Given how sweaty he is, I’m not surprised that his fever seems to have broken. I pull him closer, hugging him to me.

“Rani?” Darian’s whispered concern pulls me to his form lingering in the doorway, and I give him a soft smile. He regards his son in my embrace before his expression softens. “What’s wrong? Why are you in here?”

A little uncertainty pierces my mind. What if he gets upset that I didn’t wake him up? Arman is his son, after all. “Arman had a fever last night, so I gave him some meds and a cold compress. I didn’t want to leave him alone, so I decided to rock him back to sleep.” My anxiety builds and I keep babbling. “You said you have a vendor meeting this morning so I decided I’d let you sleep. I hope you’re not upset. I would have woken you up if I didn’t think I could handle it.”

Darian’s soft steps close the gap between us. He lifts a sleeping Arman into his arms before gently putting him in his crib. He presses the back of his hand over Arman’s head, likely noticing what I did–that his fever has broken.

Weaving our fingers together, he pulls me out into the hallway before closing Arman’s bedroom door. He drags me to his room before closing the door behind us. He considers me intently, as if he’s trying to figure out what to say, and the fact that he hasn’t spoken so far does nothing to ease my growing uncertainty.

What if he thinks I’m unfit to take care of Arman? What if he thinks I made the wrong call by administering the meds on my own?

“Darian–”

But before I can finish, Darian’s mouth slams into mine. His tongue sweeps over my lips and I’m momentarily so struck that I don’t even respond. I regain my senses quickly, opening my mouth, allowing our tongues to commence in a delicious battle. He grasps my face in his hands, as if he’s afraid I’ll slip away if he doesn’t hold on.

He pulls his lips from mine. “Whenever I think you couldn’t surprise me more, you go and do just that.”

I search his gaze. “You’re not mad? I’m sorry if I should have woken you up.”

“No, baby, I’m not mad. I’m . . . I’m bewildered. I’m amazed, but I’m not mad. You’re something else, Rani.”

I smile, trying to gather my thoughts. I’m feeling like they’re all swimming inside my head and I can’t capture anything. “Darian . . . I want this to work. I want us to work.”

He focuses on me, not quite understanding where my words are coming from. “I want us to work too, baby.”

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