“No. It's fine.” His eyes drift to his sport coat, casually draped over the back of a chair. “I have my Epipens.”
“And I have extras in my purse,” I assure him. As he nods, his eyes drift to my belly. Anaphylactic insect allergies aren't new to me. I don't have one, but my best friend did growing up. Andrew's is well documented.
His mother's death–and sacrifice for him–haunts him.
The specter of either of our children having the same allergy is one we barely talk about. In a sense, we don't have to. He's careful. I'm careful. His mother's death means that he has at least two Epipens on him at all times now, so no one ever has to make the choice Elena forced on Declan in the moment both she and Andrew were stung.
I understand that choice better now.
Understanding it doesn't make it less painful.
“Hey, beautiful,” Andrew says to me as he buttons his dress shirt, seeing my tear-filled eyes. “It's fine. We'll walk in the sun. I'm not a vampire anymore,” he teases.
“You worry about the boys.”
He stills, eyes on mine. “Of course I do.” A sad smile comes over his face. “But time will tell. And Epipens come in pairs for us.” Kissing me softly, then more deeply, our embrace grows more intimate by the second, his body mine to lean on, my body growing his children.
When we untangle, it's with a sniffle from me and a sweet touch of my jawline from him, followed by dueling stomach growls.
Ah, hunger.
Ten minutes later, we're dressed and in the elevator, the sudden drop of the car making my lower belly feel like it's a wave pool. Andrew senses the change in me and gives the boys a good rub, the kind of affectionate touch he never gave before the pregnancy. As we walk out to the Boston streets, heading toward Congress and Consuela's secret rooftop restaurant, I breathe in the salty city air.
My hand seeks his and finds it instantly, our fingers threading comfortably. He slides his sunglasses on and I take him in, deeply grateful for a life with a man so strong, handsome, caring, and most important–all mine.
If you had told me five years ago I'd have this someday, I'd have assumed you got into Chuckles' catnip stash and were pulling my leg.
As we walk, I adjust my stride, Andrew's long legs covering more territory per step than mine. The bigger I get, the more I waddle, but keeping up with him feels good, though he slows down to make it easier on me. My body needs to stretch and move, the blood flow important. I've never been one to work out much, but I do fine.
Pregnancy makes me feel more in my body than ever before.
Sunny days like this make me appreciate having a place on the water. The city is busier than you'd expect on a Sunday morning, easing into the afternoon. It's July, which means the tourists are pouring in, the Tea Party re-enactment boat packed with people and a long line at the ticket window. The scent of garlic and sweet sausage wafts past us as we get closer to Consuela's, then ginger and peanuts. Plenty of trendy places have moved into the area, but Connie’s food can't be smelled from the street.
She's high above it all.
You can't call Consuela's to book a table. There is no website. It's the kind of place a billionaire like Andrew knows about because he's Andrew McCormick, CEO of Anterdec, and that's that. Celebrity chefs like Consuela don't hire mystery shoppers, they don't advertise, and they certainly don't have two-for-one specials on Monday nights.
“You okay? The walk isn't too much?” he asks me as we wait at a crosswalk, his hand warm and strong in mine.
“Fine as can be.”
A lazy little honeybee bounces from blossom to blossom in a planter outside a café. Shannon is allergic to them, but that little puffball covered in pollen could sting Andrew and he'd be fine. The randomness of anaphylaxis is something I'm not educated enough to fully understand, but on an emotional level, I am an expert on anticipatory danger from creatures that weigh less than .00025 pounds.
Until you carry around forty-five extra pounds of baby (okay, fine, babies and Cheetos...), you don't realize how hard stairs can be. My mother would note that my pregnancy weight is equal to 180,000 bees.
How do I know this?
Because she actually calculated it for me. When your mom's an actuary, you learn these details.
“What are you doing?” Andrew asks as I head toward the stairwell. He's pointing at the elevator.
“Elevator” is a stretch. It's a flat door, the old-fashioned kind, with the accordion grate and everything.
I look pointedly at my belly. “We can't fit in that thing, unless you have a shoehorn.”
“Then you go without me. I'll take the stairs.”
Claustrophobia is not an issue I've ever experienced, but I get a whiff of it now.
“Nah. Let's do the stairs.”
Skeptical eyes meet mine. “Are you sure?”
“I need the exercise.”
“No.” He jabs the elevator button.
“What do you mean, no?”
“You're not climbing the stairs.”
“I said I'm fine!”
“And I said you're not overexerting yourself as you come off bed rest.”
“There isn't room for both of us in there!”
“Then I'll walk, you ride.”
But the elevator doesn't come.
As we wait, a guy in a white kitchen uniform walks in, carrying a bag of produce. He pauses, then says, “it's broken.”
“Broken?” we answer in unison. His eyes drift to my belly and he practically chokes.
“Yeah. Sorry.”
“See?” I turn on Andrew as he leaves. “I'll take the stairs.”
“We can go to a different restaurant.”
I ignore him and start up.
The rooftop part of Consuela's bistro becomes annoyingly apparent as we trudge upward. Behind me, halfway there, Andrew pauses and sighs. I turn around to look at him and he makes a face of chagrin.
“I wish you'd taken the elevator.”
“Why? Because my fat ass is hard to look at?”
A hand goes straight to said body part. “That
