The Culmination (42 page)

I check my watch. “Come on, baby. The limo’s probably already out front.”

“Just a sec,” Sarah says. She’s flitting around the house with Rosario and her mother, checking and re-checking supplies, reminding Rosario which stuffed animal is each girl’s favorite and which yogurt Sunny prefers and how to rub Luna’s back so she falls right to sleep. It’s ridiculous, actually. Rosario lives here, for the love of God, and she knows our babies as well as we do. Probably better than I do, actually, since I have no idea which yogurt Sunny likes or whether Luna likes the purple stuffed kitty or the yellow dinosaur.

I look at my watch again, but it’s an act. When you’ve chartered a private plane, the crew waits for
you.
As they should. Because I’m a fucking god among men. And I’m gonna fuck my wife ’til she sees God. And when she does, she’s gonna say, “Oh, hi, Jonas.”

One of the babies fusses through the monitor Sarah’s holding in her hand (of course) and she freezes, listening intently to decipher the nature of the sound. If I had to guess, I’d say it was Sunny rolling over in her crib.

“
No te preocupes,
” Rosario assures Sarah.

“Just go and have fun,” Gloria adds.

Sunny’s agonized wail suddenly blares through the monitor.

“That was
Sunny
,” Sarah says, panic seizing her face—and, actually, I don’t blame her. Sunny never shrieks like that.

All four of us rush toward the nursery.

“Maybe she’s hungry?” Gloria says.

But even I know that’s not the sound Sunny makes when she wants to eat.

“Maybe she knows we’re leaving? And she’s upset?” Sarah says, her voice spiking with concern. “Babies are little sponges, you know. Maybe she senses we’re going and she’s distraught.”

When we get to the nursery, Sunny’s sitting up in her crib, red-faced and crying, hot tears streaming down her cheeks. Luna’s still fast asleep, blissfully ignoring her sister. The minute Sunny sees Sarah, she reaches up to her with both arms, her little body jerking with violent sobs. Sarah clutches Sunny and kisses her forehead. “Oh my God, Jonas. She’s burning up.”

“Will you get the thermometer, Rosario?” Sarah asks in Spanish.

Sarah puts her hand on Sunny’s forehead. “Jonas. Come feel her.”

I waltz over, words of assurance already on the tip of my tongue—but when I put my hand on Sunny’s forehead, a wave of anxiety streaks through me. “Yeah, definitely warm.” In truth, I agree with Sarah: little Sunny’s burning up. But I don’t want to freak Sarah out any more than she already is.

Sarah’s face flashes with anxiety—and I must admit her face looks exactly the way I feel. I touch Sunny’s face again. Holy fuck. My heart squeezes in my chest.

Chapter 41

Jonas

This is not the way I expected to be spending tonight with Sarah. After spending three hours with Sunny in urgent care, followed by coming home and bathing her in a cool bath, followed by bouncing her for two hours while she sobbed uncontrollably, we’re now sitting with Sunny and Luna in the nursery in the wee hours of the morning, rocking them gently, lit only by a dim lamp in the corner.

Gloria went home hours ago and Rosario finally went to bed just before midnight.

Poor Sunny’s fever is still raging, though she’s finally quieted down, and wild horses couldn’t drag either of us away from her side.

Sarah’s clutching Sunny to her chest and I’ve got Luna pressed against mine. There’s really no reason for me to be holding Luna right now, actually—I should probably leave the poor girl alone and let her sleep in her crib—but tonight I feel a particular need to hold her and keep her safe.

Sarah takes Sunny’s temperature again.

“Same as before?” I ask.

“Same. But, hey, at least it’s not going up. That’s a good sign. The doctor said it’s not dangerous unless it goes up.”

“Should we put her in a cool bath again?”

“If it doesn’t go down in half an hour, we will. She’s finally quiet—let’s let her rest.”

“When can we give her Tylenol again?”

“Another hour.”

“Is she sleeping?” I ask.

“Yeah. Out like a light. Poor thing. What about Lu?”

“Asleep.”

We rock in silence for a couple minutes.

“It broke my heart to see her crying like that tonight,” Sarah says. “Sunny never cries like that.”

“I know. I thought I was gonna cry right along with her. I’d rather cut off my right arm than see her cry like that ever again.”

Sarah chuckles. “Well, jeez, at least cut off your left arm. You kinda need your right arm.”

“I’d cut off whatever it takes not to see my baby cry like that again.”

“That’s a twisted game of Would You Rather right there: Would you rather cut off your right arm or see your baby cry?”

“Cut off my arm.”

“Would you rather cut off your penis or see your baby cry?”

“Why you gotta go there, Sarah?”

“Well, you said
whatever
it takes.”

“I’m not gonna answer that question.”

We rock in silence again for a minute.

“Would you rather be born with no penis or have one and have it cut off?”

“What’s with you and cutting off penises?”

“Would you rather.”

“I’m not gonna answer any question that involves cutting off my dick.”

“So you’d rather be born without one?”

“Yeah. Then I wouldn’t know what I was missing.”

“Good answer. But what if you got to have
a lot
of sex before it was cut off? You’d rather be born without one and never get to experience sex?”

“If I was born without a dick, I wouldn’t know what I was missing. I’d be the shackled man in Plato’s cave. Blissfully ignorant. There’s something to be said for blissful ignorance.”

“Okay. Would you rather have no penis or five?” Sarah asks.

“Five,” I answer quickly, and she laughs. “That’s an easy one.”

“You could use a latex glove as a condom. Would you rather have no elbows or no knees?”

“Um. No elbows.”

“Me, too.” She chuckles.

“We’d just hug each other all the time.”

“Aw. Another greeting card for your collection. ‘Darling, if we were born without elbows, I’d hug you all the time. Happy Valentine’s Day.’”

I laugh.

“Would you rather crap your pants in public once a year for the rest of your life or crap yourself in private every single day?”

I’m laughing too hard to respond.

“Come on. Answer.”

I can’t stop laughing. “You’re so fucking
weird
.”

“Answer.”

“Once a year in public,” I finally say.

She belly laughs. “Me, too. Why?”

“Because I’d just fly to some foreign country, crap my pants, and fly home. Not that big a deal. One day of my life.”

She laughs for a good long minute. “You’re so good at strategizing. I never would have thought of that. Can I come with you and crap my pants in some exotic locale with you?”

“Sure. Sounds kinda romantic.”

Sarah laughs. “Seriously, baby, you gotta call Hallmark.”

“It’s on my to do list.” We rock the babies quietly for a moment. “What country?” I ask.

“What country what?”

“What country should we pick to fly to and crap our pants together?”

“You can pick, love. Surprise me. Just make it a place where I couldn’t understand the exclamations of disgust being hurled at me.”

“Okay. How about Bhutan?” I ask.

“Never heard of it.”

“Then it’s perfect.”

“Okay, book it. Jonas and Sarah’s Craptastic Adventure,” Sarah says.

“Another round of delicious anticipation.”

Sarah chuckles. “Okay, another one. Would you rather have a time machine that only goes back in time or a time machine that only goes forward in time?”

“That’s easy. Forward. Always forward.”

Sarah smiles. “You wouldn’t want to go back to Athens and hang out with Plato and talk about the meaning of life?”

“No. I’d want to visit Sunny and Lu as old ladies. I’d want to sit and talk to my girls and ask them about their life.”

“Aw.” She’s clearly moved by that answer.

“Plus, I’m dying to find out if we ever cure cancer or invent flying cars and find out if global warming obliterates the planet like they say it will. What about you?”

“Oh, future all the way. Fuck the past.”

“Fuck it.”

“Bitch.”

“Motherfucker.” I laugh. “Okay. Ask me a really good one. Something that’d be really hard to choose.”

She thinks. “Would you rather have to listen to One Direction or Justin Bieber every single time we engage in any kind of sexual act for the rest of our lives?”

“Oh my God! Are you Satan?”

She laughs. “You have to choose.”

“No.”

“Yes. You can’t play the game and not follow the rules.”

I scowl.

“Pick.”

I shake my head.

“Jonas Faraday. Yes. No pussing out.”

I exhale. “One Direction.”

“I knew it!” She hoots with laughter. “You secretly like my boys as much as I do.”

I try to suppress my smile. “They’re okay, actually. Except for that one with the douche-y hair and the butterfly tattoos.”

“Harry.”

“Yeah.
Harry.
”

“Oh my God, Jonas. He’s the cutest one—the bad boy.”

“Douche.”

“Aw, you’re just jealous.”

“Yeah, I’m jealous of Harry from One Direction. That’s me.”

She laughs. “He’s adorable. Seriously. Now there’s one I’d go back in a time machine for.”

“You wanna steal Harry Styles’ eighteen-year-old virginity?”

“Yeah, good thing I’d only have to go back in my time machine by two years. Probably wouldn’t even get jet lag.”

I laugh. “You funny.”

“I funny.” She beams at me. “You’ve got to admit their songs are hella catchy.”

“I will admit that many of One Direction’s songs are extremely well written by their team of professional songwriters.”

She laughs. “Oh, Jonas, I love you.”

“And I love you.”

“Okay. I’ve got a good one. Would you rather never go down on me again, ever, or never fuck me again?”

I shake my head. “You’re evil.”

“Answer it.”

“I refuse to answer based on the religious freedoms granted to me by the First Amendment.”

She scoffs.

“You’re asking me to choose between my religion and my vice.”

“That’s the whole point of this game—you have to pick between two impossible choices.”

“Well, in this hypothetical, if I go down on you, can you give me a handjob while I do it?”

“Yes. With lots and lots of lube—followed by the best blowjob ever, every freaking time. And we can sixty-nine, too, every single day. Just no intercourse. Ever again. As long as you live. No cock burrowing deep, deep into me, never, ever, ever,
ever
—”

“Stop! Enough already! The pain.” I shake my head like she’s torturing me. “Fine. You wore me down. I can’t live without fucking you, baby—you know that.”

She laughs.

“But it pains me even hypothetically to give up tasting you for the rest of my life. Even hypothetically, the thought of never going down on you again, never giving you that exquisite kind of pleasure again, never feeling your hard clit swirling around against my tongue until you start opening and shutting against my mouth ...” I pause. “Shit.”

“You just gave yourself a giant woody?”

I nod.

She laughs.

“Having a massive boner while holding my infant daughter isn’t my favorite thing.”

Sunny makes a little whimpering noise against Sarah’s chest.

“Take her temperature again, baby. I’m worried.”

Sarah grabs the sensory thermometer and puts it against Sunny’s forehead. She sighs with relief. “It went down a full degree,” she says. “Thank God. You think that means her fever’s breaking?”

“I sure hope so. Is it time for Tylenol yet?”

Sarah looks at her watch. “No, thirty minutes.”

We rock in the gliders for a long moment, both of us stroking whichever baby we happen to be holding.

“How about this one?” I say. “Would you rather piss yourself every time you listen to music or every time you have an orgasm?”

She flashes me a sardonic look. “Oh, real subtle, Jonas.”

“What?” I ask, feigning innocence.

“Oh, gosh, I dunno. Hmm,” Sarah says. “Could your question possibly be designed to create a
teaching moment,
oh, Lord-God-Master?”

“And here I thought I was so clever.”

“You can’t use your Jedi mind tricks on me, Jonas. I’m too smart.”

“Fine. But at least tell me your answer, even if my motives are obvious.”

Genuine anxiety flickers across her face, but then disappears. “No. I’m not gonna answer this one,” she says matter-of-factly.

“You’re the one who said we have to answer the questions no matter what. I answered a really tough one. Come on.”

“That wasn’t a tough one. Every man on the planet would pick intercourse over giving a woman oral sex, for the love of Pete. It was a harder choice for you than the average man, but still a no-brainer.”

“Still, it was a horribly
painful
decision.”

She smirks.

“Come on, Sarah. Answer my question. Are you gonna piss yourself when you hear music or when you orgasm?”

“When I hear music.”

“Seriously? You’d honestly prefer to piss yourself
any
time you hear music than in the privacy of our bed, just you and me?”

“I told you I don’t want to answer this one. I’ve already pissed myself enough in real life. I don’t need to do it hypothetically, too. Ask a different question.”

“What do you mean you’ve already pissed yourself enough in real life?”

She smashes her lips together but doesn’t reply.

“Sarah? What do you mean?”

She pauses for a long beat before speaking again. “I was a bed-wetter for a
really
long time,” she finally says. Her cheeks are turning a bright red.

“Really?” For a nanosecond, I feel the urge to laugh about this revelation, but the look of complete vulnerability on Sarah’s face stops me. “How long is ‘a really long time’?”