In Our Bones

"Sure," I said, glancing at Aspen. She gave me a look, which I knew to mean be careful.

Booker and I stepped out into the hall. We hadn't been alone, just the two of us, since that night at the park. We both stuck our hands in our pockets to avoid the chance of an accident brush of the hands. I led him to the elevator and then to the cafeteria.

"What'd you get?" he asked casually.

"The chicken tortilla soup."

"Sounds good," he said, walking over to the soup station. He poured himself a large cup of it, grabbed a handful of crackers and a bottled Vitamin Water in the flavor XXX, which was açaí blueberry pomegranate. It was his favorite. He used to buy it in high school from the vending machines on campus. I got him some napkins and a plastic spoon while he paid and then we sat at a table in the corner while he ate.

"How are you?" he asked.

"Fine."

He was quiet for a moment, then said, "How are you really?"

I looked up at him, tears in my eyes. "Fine," I said again.

"June... don't cry."

"I'm not trying to," I said defensively.

"I know, but it makes me feel so hopeless because there's nothing I can do to make it better."

I let out a hollow laugh. "You just had a baby, Booker. And he's beautiful. Forget my silly tears. I'll... I'll get over it."

"It's been months," he pointed out gently.

"I'll get over it. I just need time."

He paused.

"What?" I asked.

"I'm not over it either. I'm not over you," he said ardently. "I'll never be over you."

"Booker..."

He closed his eyes. "I'll love you always, June. I wish things could be different."

"Me too," I said, tears rolling down my cheeks again. "Be a good father to Cade. And a good husband to Kansas. They deserve the very best."

"I know. I will, I promise."

I knew that this was the last time we'd ever talk about "us" again. This was the closure we needed, the conversation where it all ended. This was where hope got off the train and walked away. The point of last return had been passed.

Booker finished his meal and held out his hand. I took it.

"Let's go see your future godson," he said.

"Really?" I asked, shocked.

"Who else?" he said, looking amused. "It's always been you, June."

—

I missed the two a.m. kisses that tasted like alcohol, the mistakes made in the darkness with such certainty, bodies and limbs tangled together, hearts beating in iron cages because we were not supposed to love each other; we did not belong to one another. We were a tornado of feelings, of clothes strewn over the apartment floor, of stolen kisses in shadowed parks, of gasps and moans, chests burning with the aching reminder that this was all temporary. We were stroking hands, fingertips drawing patterns across sensitive skin, a late-night drive home, fingers intertwined. We were everything terrible, everything wrong, and at the same time, we were everything beautiful, everything right, everything meant to be.

Because he'd said it himself. It's always been me.

And for me, it's always been him.

Even though he made me sick, even though he put me in this position.

Days after Cade was born, I couldn't ignore the signs anymore; I was tired all of the time, everything made me nauseous, my breasts were sore as hell, and slowly, as if I'd always known it in the back of my mind, I'd stopped drinking. I couldn't keep denying it; I was pregnant with Booker's child. When I finally went to the doctor and later had my ultrasound, they told me that I was three months along. In the final hours of the last time Booker and I had made love, something had been created from it, something like a miracle.

Getting an abortion was unthinkable, and giving up the baby would destroy me. I knew the second I found out that I would keep this child, would raise it and love it and never let it go a day without feeling wanted—because I did not want my son or daughter to know what it felt like to be me, to love someone and not have it returned.

When I told Kansas, I never did tell her who the father was. A one night stand was the explanation. It was all I could say to keep her family together, because whether I liked it or not, the truth would only hurt everyone. If she found out she'd leave Booker, and if she did that, I couldn't just be his back-up. I couldn't just steal him from under her feet like that. I couldn't destroy her family to complete mine.

Booker found out from Kansas. It was a cold, crisp evening when he knocked on my door.

"Go away," I'd said when I saw him through the peephole.

"Let me in, June."

I pressed my back against the door, holding back the tears. I wasn't strong enough for this. I would never be strong enough to resist loving him and wanting him and needing him.

"June, please."

I struggled. I resisted. I shut my eyes and tried to imagine Kansas's face, her wide grin and the way she looked so happy with Cade, how Booker was the center of her universe. They were a family. A beautiful, perfect little family.

"June, I love you. I need you to know that."

He was halfway down the steps when I threw the door open and went after him. I threw my arms around his neck and he kissed me, right on the mouth, his lips burning and hot. God, I sobbed. Pathetic and desperate, I kissed him hungrily, savoring every single second, my body begging to be taken, my heart begging to be wanted.

Booker picked me up and took me back into my apartment. We undressed, clothes on the bedroom floor, every single moment drawn out, soft deep sighs and echoes of moans, hands roaming, feeling all the feelings that we'd been bottling up inside for months. The sensations were... indescribable. It felt like everything had caved in, like the fighting was over because we'd lost the battle; hell, we'd lost the war. We were fucked up. We couldn't stop.

The window was open, the room chilly, but our bodies were feverishly hot, burning from the wild senses that overtook us. I was despairingly turned on, my pussy slick with my need for him. It had been months since I'd invited him into my body, and I hadn't been able to fill the empty space in my bed with anyone else.

"June," Booker said, gently laying me down on the bed. "God, June..."

"I love you," I said in a low whimper. I didn't even know I was crying until Booker was wiping the tears from the corners of my eyes.

"And I love you," he said softly. "I always have."

I spread my legs, tempting him to enter me. We both hissed in pleasure when his cock was finally lodged inside of my tight pussy walls. My body ached with demands, but I ignored them, letting him go at his pace: slow, sweet, each movement deliberate, lengthened and dragged out. I felt the heat building between my legs, the pit of my pussy blazing white-hot, throbbing with the aching need to be fucked. The lack of friction was making me delirious.

"Booker, please..."

"I know," he said, gripping my hips. "I feel it too."

A thousand fragmented thoughts shattered as he pounded into me, throwing my legs over his shoulders, finding an angle that had me whimpering desperately. My fingernails sank into his back, and I knew I shouldn't, that I should be careful, but recklessly I left my mark. He pressed his lips to my throat, kissing and sucking, and bit down. I cried out, tears springing to my eyes from the pain, from the mind-numbing pleasure. He was setting my heart aflame, and nothing would ease the fire, nothing would stop my lungs from being filled with the smoke of this want, this need.

"I missed this," he groaned, and the sound he made—fuck, it was sinful.

I pulled his face down, kissing him, tasting the rich desire on his tongue, and he ripped a cry from my throat as he fucked me fast, hard, deep. My pussy was fluttering from the way he tore it up, his naked skin slapping against mine, flesh to flesh, the smell of his body so heavenly that my eyes rolled back, forcing a whimper from my lips as my pussy clenched. His aftershave was intoxicating, and all I could do was taste it, to run my tongue along his jaw, kissing, inhaling. His golden eyes were nearly black when his hand reached down and brushed against my clit, first by accident and then on purpose, making my head spin, making my body stiff in surprise.

"Booker, please," I begged, unsure of what I was even asking for. All that mattered was that he didn't stop, that he kept fucking me until he quenched this thirst, until he put out the fire that he had ignited deep in my belly. Impatience boiled in my blood, and with every thrust, his calloused hands on my body, his finger rubbing my clit, I could do nothing but cry. He flipped me onto my stomach with no effort at all, gentle as if he remembered that I was carrying his child. I let out a moan, feeling him yank my hips upward, bringing my ass in the air. The change in movement sent the slick from my pussy gushing down my thighs. Booker let out a string of expletives, admiring me in the angriest of ways.

With a filthy moan, he made my whole body shake as he began to pound into me. Oh fuck. Oh my fucking god. He was filling every inch of me, even my mind, my heart, my soul. Fucking hell, it didn't hurt a bit—not even when he bottomed out with a shudder, stuffing me with his thick length.

"Fuck," he hissed, trying to catch his breath. Impatience boiled in my blood, burning fire in my veins. I needed him to move and to never ever fucking stop!

"Don't stop, please don't stop, please," I begged desperately. He didn't respond, didn't say anything at all that he couldn't answer with the movements of his body. He began to pound into me again, thrusting with such vigor that my legs trembled from the all-encompassing bliss. My pussy clenched again, and I knew I was close. I was getting tighter, squeezing his cock in my tight heat.

"Fuck," he hissed. "You're close, aren't you?"

This time I was the one who couldn't respond. All I could do was push my hips back, trying to meet his rhythm. He adjusted his speed, going faster, his fingertips digging into my hips, slamming me back on his cock, faster and faster. The sounds were filthy, our bodies slapping as he snapped his hips.

Oh, god!

"I-I'm coming," I cried weakly. Heat bloomed inside of me, and my pussy clenched and unclenched and clenched again, over and over. I gripped the sheets, my body shaking uncontrollably as I came. I felt a jerk from deep at the base of his cock, and with a growl, Booker came too, spurting his thick seed into my fluttering pussy. The pulse alone sent me over the edge again, making me come hard. Just the thought of him filling me up was enough to usually make me explode, but with him here, actually doing it... god, it was too much.

We panted, Booker gently pulling me into his arms, laying us both down on the bed. We were both breathing hard, trying to catch our breaths, and in that moment, in that singular photograph of time, I felt that we were boundlessly floating through the universe, our souls interlocked, drifting away from the rest of the world. If only that was real, if only that was our reality.

My heart was nearly shattered, and here was Booker, trying to fix me even though he was the one who was breaking me.

"We can't do this again."

It's funny, I didn't even realize I'd been the one to say it until I heard the sound of my own voice.

"I know," Booker said disconsolately. The look of mournfulness in his honeyed eyes was enough to make me cry. He held me as I wept, grieving what could never be. He tried comforting me, stroking my back, kissing the top of my head, murmuring soft words that I couldn't make out over my cries.

"We're finished," I whispered, wiping my tears. More tears replaced them almost immediately.

"You and I will always be unfinished business," Booker said.

"It's over," I said, shaking my head, sniffling.

"It's never over," he responded, taking my face in his hands and pressing his burning lips against mine.

"But we can't do this again."

"We can't," he agreed. "But we will."

How fucking selfish were we? Kansas was at home with his baby, and here I was, carrying his bastard, sleeping with him, a married man. It made me feel sick.

Sick.

My baby deserved better than this.

My baby deserved better than him.

I loved Booker, but for the first time in my life, I had something that I loved more.

"I think you should go, Booker."

—

Six months later

—

When life closes a door, sometimes it'll open a window.

My Window was four pounds and six ounces, the smallest baby in the hospital, a preemie who had been born without a cry. I'd been swallowing down my sobs, the room eerily quiet as the doctors and nurses worked diligently to bring some noise from my Window. After three of the scariest minutes of my life, a cry rang through the room. Air filled those tiny lungs, and that Window wailed.

It was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard.

What I would've liked to have done was stare at him for hours and hours, but he was whisked away to be checked on, and I wouldn't see him again until a few hours later when I was strong enough to be wheeled to the incubators. There he lay, his little hands and feet so pink that they were almost magenta, and his eyes closed shut. His breaths were shallow, and he was on a breathing tube. The doctors said he'd been born with a heart defect and told me that he would require surgery once he was stronger. I cried there in that room, praying to every power in the universe, begging them to make my Window whole, promising that I would devote my entire life to protecting him and loving him and giving him the most beautiful life I possibly could.

I named him Theodore, which meant "God's gift" in Greek. Theo was the greatest gift I would ever receive. Every time I needed a miracle, I would look at him and remember that I'd already created one.

After two weeks, he underwent surgery, and for the first six months of his life, Theo lived his life in that hospital, enduring surgery after surgery, his little body still managing to pull through after every scary code pink. But he was my son, strong and resilient, bouncing back every single time, tougher than before.

My little wonder of the universe pulled through. It took months, but I was finally able to take him home. I remember standing there in front of the hospital with the carrier in my hand, Theo sleeping soundly, and I wondered if it should be illegal for me to take this baby home. He was much too fragile and perfect to be mine. I waited patiently for my ride, half afraid that any second hospital officials would come take my baby away.

"Hey."

I still remembered the hesitancy in that deep voice, the way he'd looked at me as if I'd punched him in the gut. Booker had come to drive us home, and Kansas was at home with their own baby, Cade. They'd both visited countless times, helping me by taking shifts at the hospital along with Aspen. Because of those three, I'd been able to shower and eat meals. That was the only way I'd made it through the last six months.

"Hi," I said, probably looking as exhausted as I felt.

Booker came and hugged me, then took the carrier from my hands. He buckled our son into the back seat of his car, careful and concentrated, making sure to be thorough. His gentleness made my heart hurt. Theo was his son too, but for his entire life, he'd only know Booker as a sort of uncle, a man who would be present in his life but not one he could call "Daddy."

When we got to my apartment, Booker shut the engine off and we just sat there in his car. I was thinking about the last time he'd been in my apartment, fucking me and loving me and making me come, and something told me that he was thinking about the same thing.

"Thanks for the ride," I said, and opened the door and stepped out of his car. The cold autumn hair hit me like a train, making me shiver. My first thought was to take my jacket off. Why? Because I was going to drape it over my son's carrier to protect him from the cold.

When I turned around, I saw Booker already shrugging out of his sweater. He opened the back door and draped his sweater over the carrier. His movements were all gentle and calculated as he unbuckled the carrier and lifted it out of the back seat. I watched as he carried our son halfway up the stairs before stopping and turning to me.

"You just gonna stand there?"

I made my feet move. What the fuck was wrong with me?

When we got inside the apartment, I went to get the heat going and Booker was ahead of me by warming up a bottle. It's kind of impossible to breastfeed a sick baby, especially one who is at the hospital every single second, so Theo was a formula baby. I tried not to stare too much as Booker fed our baby.

So this was what it was like to be Kansas.

This was what it was like to have everything.

Theo drank his milk hungrily, and Booker gently rocked him, pressing a kiss to his forehead. These were things he'd only be able to do while Theo was still a baby. Once he got old enough to remember, Booker would have to stop. My son would have to be denied the affections of his own father so that everyone could be happy. It was the biggest sacrifice imaginable.

Booker burped Theo and then put him to sleep in his arms. He took a seat on a kitchen chair and looked up at me with his tired golden eyes.

"Is it exhausting being his father?" I asked for no good reason at all. I don't know why I was so bitter; it had, after all, been my idea to keep this all a secret.

"No," Booker said. "It's exhausting pretending I'm not his father."

I went and took Theo from his arms, carrying him into the bedroom. Booker followed right behind me, and I wished I could've told him to stop, that he didn't belong in this room anymore, but I couldn't... it wasn't true. He would always belong here, even when I didn't want him to.

When Theo was safely in his crib, Booker suddenly took me into his arms. I sighed, giving in. God, it felt so good to be comforted by strong arms. The last six months had been hard on me. No mother should have to go through what I'd just gone through. To think that I could have lost Theo... It was almost too much. By no surprise to anyone, I began to cry.

"Shh, s'okay," Booker said, rubbing my back. "Everything will be okay."

I looked up into his eyes. "Will it? How do you know, Booker?"

"I don't know. I can only hope."

There was such longing in his eyes, such yearning that I had to tear my gaze away. My cheeks were already starting to bloom pink, my hands clammy as I tried to forget about the fact that Booker was holding me—Booker, who I'd once been under; Booker, who'd once fucked me so hard that I'd seen stars; Booker, who had filled me with his seed and given me life's greatest gift: motherhood.

"I love you, June," he said softly, almost cautiously. "You're not alone."

"But I am," I said, my voice thick. "I'm always going to be alone."

"What are you talking about, June? I'm here. Kansas and Aspen and—"

"No, you don't understand," I croaked. "Your side of the bed will always be empty."

Realization struck his features so beautifully, the way the burn in his honeyed eyes softened, his lips parting ever so slightly. He was so handsome, his dark wavy hair tousled, his long lashes fluttering like the elegant wings of a butterfly, and it was as if I'd sprinkled fairy dust over him when he looked into my eyes. His head leaned down, mine lifted, and we almost kissed.

Almost.

"Booker, no," I said, pushing him away. "God, is it always going to be this way? We have to stop this!"

Booker inhaled sharply through his nose, frustrated. "It'll be however you want it, June. It's always been about how you want things."