This afternoon, we’ve been watching FX’s X-Men marathon on our bed with Maximoff between us, and he’s been sleeping well past his usual nap time. “Is he alive?” I whisper to Lo. We both sort of hover over him, watching him sleep more than we’ve been watching the films.
Paranoid, yes. We’ve been reading too many pamphlets about Sudden Infant Death syndrome. Which can be caused by what feels like anything. The baby can’t sleep on his tummy. He can’t be wrapped too tightly in a blanket. One wrong move and bam! Baby down.
I have this dark, horrific image of waking up and finding Maximoff blue and…yeah.
I’ve already made Connor give me refresher tips for baby CPR.
“I’m sure he’s alive, Lil,” Lo whispers, but his brows knot with as much uncertainty as mine.
“How do we know he’s breathing?” I ask.
Lo stays quiet for a moment, and then he says, “Maybe one of us should poke him or something.”
I nod wildly. “Good idea. You do it.” Our baby barely stirs, so peaceful, and he rarely ever cries either. Jane has more fits than him…maybe that’s why I’m more nervous about his quiet nature. I can’t tell if it means something’s wrong or if he’s just a really good baby.
Lo leans closer on his side and taps Maximoff’s little foot in his blue onesie, a lightning bolt on the chest. My heart stops beating for a couple seconds and only starts again when he kicks his little legs. I exhale a breath of relief. He’s alive. All is well.
And then he wails loudly.
Oh no. “He woke up.” I cringe at his shrieks and sit up at the same time as Lo.
Lo gives me a look. “I thought that was the point.” He scoops Maximoff in his arms and pats his bottom as he rocks him. Our son hushes in seconds, his slate-gray eyes closing in a sleep, his little lips parted as he breathes. Lo wags his brows at me. “He loves me.”
I can’t help but smile, and I kiss Lo quickly on the lips. I want to say: you’re easily lovable, Loren Hale. But sadly, that’s not true for most people he meets. I fell in love with Lo like a little girl opening her heart to magic. It always seemed surreal until the moment it became true.
Lo checks the clock on the end table. “We should probably feed him.” He climbs off the bed and looks down at me. “Lil.”
“What?” I try to restrain my smile, biting my gums. It doesn’t work too well.
“You can’t look at me like that every time I hold him. It’s driving me insane, and I can’t do anything about it for six weeks.” He says I have this “adorable happy glow” that makes him want to straddle me. But I have no sexual urges, for maybe the first time ever. I’m sore down below and the thought of something hard sounds too painful to consider. And thankfully my hormones are even back in check.
I spring off the bed. “I can’t help it. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever witnessed.”
“Like Magneto saving mutant-kind without destroying mankind, I know. You’ve told me.”
I point a finger at him. “That is a damn good metaphor and I came up with it all on my own.”
Lo shields our baby’s ears playfully. “No cursing, Lily Martha Calloway.”
I crinkle my nose. “I don’t like my full name.”
“Don’t worry,” he says with that teasing look, “I’m going to make you a Hale soon.”
I want to revel in that fact, but my smile fades by it. I’ve reminded him so many times that it’s okay if it doesn’t happen. He has a lot on his plate, and orchestrating a wedding is too much. I wouldn’t want to cause him more stress. Plus, I fear our parents taking over and turning it into their day again. It’s best to just set weddings aside. Contemplate it in five years’ time when things settle and Maximoff is older.
Neither of us ever suggests eloping. The idea feels like another deceit or lie that we’ve concocted.
“It’s going to happen,” Lo says, his gaze slowly narrowing. He still rocks our son in his arms.
“I know, I know.” I try to drop the subject. “What color eyes do you think he’ll have?” The doctors said that a baby’s eye color changes in their first year, so we’re not one-hundred percent sure on the hue.
While he answers, I lead Lo out the door, and I can feel his body tensing behind me. But he follows me into the hallway regardless.
“Your green ones,” he says. I spin around and peek at our son. His eyelids open as he stretches his arms and he giggles when he stares at my eyebrows. Oh my God. He has the cutest dimpled cheeks and little nose. At six pounds, two ounces, he came out a bit small but a lot heart-stoppingly adorable. It sounds cheesy, but it’s my baby. I feel like the cheese-factor rises once you reproduce.