Serious growth begins at thirty-five weeks; the baby feels massive. It's 5.5 pounds, and supposed to gain half a pound a week from here on out. The pressure on Aly's bladder means she constantly wakes Emery up to help her to the bathroom.
"I'm scared," Emery confesses to me while we watch a soccer game on my couch one night when he just needed to get away.
"Everyone is, when they have their first kid. You'll be fine." I smile, lifting my beer bottle to my lips. "I'm here."
"You've always been here for me."
"And you for me. What're friends for?"
He leans his head on my shoulder. We finish the show and I lift the remote to flick the screen off. It's dark outside, the lamplight golden. We look at each other and smile fondly, and then we just don't look away.
I lean in, breathing growing shallow. In a heartbeat - a single flashing throbbing moment - we're kissing. Kissing so hard we nearly dislocate our noses, the suction of our lips pulling our skin and contorting our faces. I suck his tongue into my mouth, then he sucks my jaw, tongue rasping through my stubble. I grip the back of his neck to hold him in place and kiss him harder than I've ever done anything until there's blood and he's whimpering. I push him backward on the couch, making out with him hungrily.
It's not pretty, all spit and harsh panting and biting and bruising fingers and hairs being ripped out. Emery's face is red; I can feel veins pulsing in my forehead to the beat of the throbbing down below.