I’d chosen this book because the art was really nice, and I thought the girl with shining eyes on the cover vaguely resembled the woman currently dozing beside me.
“The woods were very dark,” I say to her belly, keeping a close eye for any movement. “But she wasn’t any normal girl, for whenever she got scared or lost, her eyes would light up.” I flip the page, and it doesn’t matter that I’m talking to my girlfriend’s stomach. I still show it the page. “All the other kids would make fun of her strangely glowing eyes, but her Mommy said it was her… uh, co—courage.”
I’m just getting the word out when I feel the flutter of fingers in my hair. My eyes jolt up, finding Story’s staring back at me. Her gaze is still heavy with sleep, but the small, gentle smile she gives me feels more alive than anything I’ve ever known.
Her fingers skate down to touch my mouth. “I love hearing you read.”
I look away, shifting uncomfortably. “Is she moving?”
Story hums, stretching her legs. “A little bit. It’s like I have butterflies dancing around in there or something.” I put my palm on her stomach, hoping to feel it. I’ve only been doing this for a few days, but a secret part of me hoped she’d begin reacting a little more boisterously to my voice. Tristian and Killian have both felt the kick. I’ve gotten fuck-all. Story’s belly bounces with a laugh. “You look so grumpy. She’s just a fetus, Dimitri. She probably sleeps when I do.” Quieter, she asks, “Read us some more?”
I don’t think I’ll ever be great at reading, but after a couple years of literacy coaching and practice, I’ve gotten good enough to bumble my way through books harder than the ones I bought for our little girl. It makes something hot and embarrassed rise up inside me at the knowledge she’ll surpass me one day. She’ll come home from school with a worksheet or assignment that I won’t be able to make heads or tails out of, and then I’ll have to send her to Tristian or Killer, and it’ll fucking kill me. But I’m going to make damn sure that she never has to feel this. I’m going to make sure we teach her all there is to know, even if some of us have less to teach than others. I’m going to make sure people look at my girl and see someone who’s just as smart as she is beautiful and strong.
Clearing my throat, I turn the page. “Even though she had her eyes to light the path, the little girl was still frightened, because she knew some things were drawn to her light, and not all of them were good.” In the story, the little girl’s shining eyes attract a group of woodland friends; a moth, a fawn, and a wily raccoon. Together, they take her to shine a light in the deepest, darkest parts of the Bramble Woods. “Seems a little exploitative to me, but alright,” I mutter, raising an eyebrow as I flip the page. They run across an evil spirit who wants to take the little girl’s light, which, as I tell the belly in front of me, “is probably a metaphor for capitalism. More on that when you’re twelve…”
Story laughs, resting her hand on mine against her stomach.
At the end of the book, the girl finds her Mommy, who’d been searching for her daughter all along. She tells her, “The special thing about the light behind your eyes is that it isn’t special at all. Everyone has a ray of courage in their soul, eager to brighten their way.” I raise my eyes to Story’s and make an exaggerated gagging sound.
“It’s sweet!” She gently whacks me upside the head. Catching her hand in mine, I laugh, lacing our fingers together. “You know what it reminds me of?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. “Remember that first year, when I was reading your Lit assignments, and Robert Frost—”
I recite it without even needing to think, “Whose woods these are I think I know…” I’ve long since memorized the whole poem—not that it’s very long. The truth is, I kind of wish I could go back to those three idiots and that gorgeous girl who did us the honor of calling herself our Lady. If I could, I’d tell them to pull their heads out of their asses and treat her right. I’d tell her it gets better. I’d ask her to hold on, just a little longer, until we found that cheesy fucking ray of courage in our souls. I finish, “The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep. And miles to go before I—”
She gasps, eyes flying wide, and before I can even scramble upright, she has my palm pressed to her stomach, face splitting into a grin. “Do you feel it?!”