"That there is a penis."
Not words that one hears daily unless you're the sonographer who's just informed us that we're having a son.
Somehow, this is more exciting to me than the concept of a girl. If I'm being honest, I don't think I'd make a very good mother to one. But being a mother to a boy? The idea feels more natural to me. I've always been able to understand and relate better to boys. So in my mind, it makes sense that I could raise one better than a girl. I hope he looks like you. With your warm eyes, smile, dark hair and bright heart. Just not your shoulders. My body won't appreciate giving birth to something of that width, thank you very much. I hope he gets my dimples, my sass and creativity. But it's fine if he doesn't. He can be whoever he wants, as long as he's happy– like your father.
He's even happier than the initial news of getting a future grandchild. Because now that he knows he's getting a grandson– your dad has become a small boy who's just been told he's getting a PS5– pro.
"Good effort, son!!" he exclaims. I have to laugh. 'Good effort.' Such a funny compliment to give, under the circumstances. Almost like he's telling you 'congrats, you're good at impregnation.'
Well, he isn't wrong, is he?
My mother is equally delighted. She has a soft spot for baby boys too. I know this because she's a kindergarten teacher and looks after newborns to two-year-olds. Most of her fondest work stories revolve around baby boys.
Your reaction to the news, however? I can't gauge it. I don't think even you can.
You seem to drift between moments of emotional overwhelmedness and stunned awe. You cry at random intervals and other times, stare off into space. You felt your son kick the other night with your hand upon my stomach. Your expression matched your dad's– PS5 Pro news.
Speaking of surprising information– our landlord visits while you're at work. With a heavy heart, he announces that he's putting the house on the market. We're given one month to move out and I cry after he leaves.
No, it's not my house, but it feels like it is. It's become our home, filled with memories and I want to create more under its roof. You arrive home that night to find me sulking on the couch with a massive bowl of popcorn– ready salted with my own tears.
"Baby?" you ask, throwing your jacket onto a chair, "what's wrong?"
"Landlord's selling the house," I sniffle and stuff down another handful, "we have to move out in four weeks."
You blink at me about seven times before sighing. "Oh."
"I don't want to leave," I frown a toddler's expression, "I like it here."
You join me on the couch. "Me too."
We sit in silence, laced with my obnoxious crunching of popcorn. I toss the bowl into the sink and tell you I'm going to bed. You stay on the couch, deeply contemplative. The next day, I'm avoiding looking for another place to rent, as if yesterday didn't happen. And as you end a lengthy, private phone call in the bedroom, it's as if it hadn't.
"Who was that?" I ask. You tuck your phone into your pocket with a smile.
"Our landlord," you say, "and the bank– I secured the house."
I shake my head, thinking I've misheard you. "What house?"
"This house."
"You... you bought it?!"
"Well," you shrug, "some of it. The rest is on a home loan with the bank."
I glance around, looking for someone else to be as shocked as I am but it's just Arya clawing the couch. You begin rinsing the salted Napa cabbages in the kitchen– you make the Kimchi now– yours is better.
"Are you serious, Jay?"
"We want to stay," you say, turning the tap on, "you're due in July and we need a permanent roof over our heads now more than ever. Having our own house seems like a wise investme-"
I don't let you finish your reasoning, my hands are around your waist and I'm cuddling you from behind. "Thank you," I mutter into your back. "I don't deserve you."
You laugh it off but I was serious and Heidi haunts me again.
"God, I'd make such a good Korean wife," you say, starting on the Kimchi sauce. "My recipe has become top tier, wouldn't you say?"
I nod into your back and begin to wonder just what the hell I ever did in this life or the last to be worthy of you. It was our anniversary that Thursday and I bought you a card. At the bottom of it, I wrote 'thank you for being mine', because what else can I say about everything you do for me?
The house isn't the only thing that we deem a wise investment– we upgrade my car. It only had two airbags and not nearly enough space or features for driving a baby around in. I sold it to a mutual friend of ours and we bought a Honda CR-V. Though it takes me a while to adjust to driving an SUV, it is by far the nicest thing I've ever owned or driven. Your inner car nerd can't contain itself when you pop the hood of it.
"Wait," you grin, "it has a fucking K20 in it?!"
I wait for you to elaborate because I have no idea what you're orgasming over.
"This is the Honda engine!" you say, "VTEC! Two engines in one!"
Translation: It's a solid, reliable thing and the more aggressive versions of it were used in performance vehicles. You nod proudly and begin checking random fluid levels. "We made a good choice."
But one thing we struggle to make a choice about is this kid's name.
We're delighted it's a boy. Don't get me wrong.
But it would've been easier if it were a girl.
With a girl, we had a name.
With a boy? We have six. More like sixteen.
But for the past week, we have roughly settled on Adrian for a first name, for my father's name was Adrianus. We like Ryan for a middle name– your mother's maiden name. Both of these together to pay homage to our parents who aren't around to meet their grandchild? It just makes sense. I won't say these will definitely be our son's given names, but at this stage, they are.
As time passes, I begin accumulating baby items. I'm a huge fan of thrift shopping and I'm delighted to find so many things for such a small price. Like the newborn-sized bear onesie I got for a dollar. A dollar. It's brand new. Such a win. I can see our little baby bear in it. He's gonna be so cute. All the old women who pass him wearing that bear onesie are gonna want to eat him alive.
We have a cot, a bassinet, a car seat, his first toy– a huge plush Elephant. I just get this feeling he'll like Elephants– or hate them by the time I fill his room with them. Day by day, I find more clothes for him. Kid has a bigger wardrobe than I do.
But all in all? Pregnancy is kinda boring.
Sure, I have these moments of excitement but they are few and far between. Ultrasound scans are always cool. Feeling him kicking and moving is amazing. Shopping for him is great. But nine months is a long time to wait around until he gets here. So we both just keep doing our thing in the meantime.
You've received yet another promotion. On top of being the manager of your workshop, you're also its business analyst. While you welcome the pay rise it brings to our growing family, you're wary of its more demanding hours and hope it won't cut into your time with us like you once tried to avoid. But it's early days, yet. We will see.
I will attend college for as long as I'm able. My tutors have given me five years after the birth to complete my remaining six months of study. It's quite a generous time allowance and I'm thankful for it. But the more I think about music, the less I want to make a profession out of it. It's the same with writing. Currently, I'm torn about my future career. Sometimes, I don't think I have the patience to be a music teacher. I'd be quite happy just being a housemother who grows plants and writes books. But I need to take my own advice here– I don't know if something is right or wrong until I actually do it. Again, we will see.
It's the middle of the afternoon on a Sunday, one of our friends is over and he's having car trouble. You, as usual, pop the hood to check the damage. You quickly identify the issue and turn to me.
"Can you please grab my blue jumpsuit? It should be in the laundry room."
In the moment, the words 'blue jumpsuit' mean nothing to me. But as I enter the laundry and dig out that item of clothing from under a stack of towels, I find myself in tears. It's the same blue jumpsuit you wore all those years ago when you fixed my car on your last day of school.
We've both changed so much since then.
But we're still the same.
Regardless of how far you've climbed or how many titles or awards you have to your name– you're still helping someone and asking for nothing in return.
And no matter how many times I've had my heart broken or seem to have given up on humanity– it still surprises me that selfless people like you exist to give me hope.
It's almost as if you shouldn't exist.
Again, you seem far too fictional to be real.
Heidi is still right.
It makes no sense that someone like you is with someone like me.
I don't deserve you.
But damn it, I will happily spend the rest of my life trying to earn you.
I love you. More than anyone. However, I've learned that I don't always like you.
You have this insufferable habit of undermining me.
You get distracted way too easily. Youtube and Twitter need to ban you for my sanity.
Stop wearing that shirt. It's old. It's too big. It has a mustard stain that won't come out. Please just get rid of it, or I swear to God, I will burn the bitch.
Open up. Stop having panic attacks in your car and telling no one about them. Problems shared are problems halved. Keep doing what you're doing and it's gonna kill you.
But I'm far from a saint, myself.
I'm a brat, actually, but we knew that.
I drink too much. Not at the moment, obviously, but when I'm not pregnant, I'll try to know when enough is enough.
I get angry over stupid things. Like your shirt.
I need to open up more too instead of giving you dirty looks until you guess what's wrong.
I have a bad habit of leaving the back door open when the heater is on.
I steal the blankets when I'm asleep. I know. I'm working on this.
I stare at you far too much when you're working out. I don't plan to work on this.
"Isla?" you ask, walking into the laundry room because I'm taking so long, "are you crying?"
Yes. Yes, I am, and I have no logical reason to give because I'm in the laundry holding a mechanics jumpsuit.
"I'm fine," I lie with a smile and hand you the thing.
"Are you sure?" you grin, "or is it those pregnancy hormones getting the better of you?"
Maybe. Maybe not.
Because I said at the beginning of this short story that every time I write about love, I understand it better. I spend most of my time writing love stories about others but never sharing one of my own.
I realize now that I'm a liar.
I like to think that I'm an original author with original characters and ideas, but I stole them.
Not from another author.
But from you.
You are delicately scattered throughout Mad World and New World.
Our dynamic is deeply engraved into the friendship and the very heart of Hitboy.
You were the entire premise, itself, for Black Orchid.
Shit– I wouldn't have been able to write a damned word if I hadn't met you.
Maybe I wrote this story because there are so many people out there like me– given up on the human race. Women who hate men because they've never met a decent one. Maybe I wanted to give them hope. To show them that despite all evidence pointing to 'no', angels do exist. In stories I've written so far, I seem to always somehow mention them. For as long as I can remember, their possible existence has always fascinated me. I believe with all my heart that we are watched over by someone; guided and loved from near and afar. There are many depictions of angels and what they wear. A biblically accurate one? Don't Google them unless you want to be absolutely terrified and confused. Others are more humanoid with wings, halos, and wear robes of blinding white, silver or gold.
But what my angel wears?
***
"God damn it," I sigh, having fallen from my Leap of Faith jumping puzzle in FFXIV for the seventeenth fucking time. You walk in and see what I've left on your computer chair to show you– two newborn-sized jumpsuits. One white, one blue. And you're doing that thing again– crying uncontrollably. As you pick up the blue one, you hold it so tenderly in your hands.
"It's so small," you whimper and glance over at me with a smile, "it's so cute."
I turn back to my jumping puzzle, manage to complete it without your help and sit there with a smile. For it seems that I'm not the only one to irrationally burst out into tears over the thought of an angel wearing a blue jumpsuit.
Definitely not the end.