“What do you get?”
“Power.”
“Hm.” I paused, “Put me down a sec. Gotta pee.”
He set me on my feet.
“I fibbed. Chase me first.” I dashed out of the bedroom and zoomed down the hall.
He came after me, “You just forfeited your chance to negotiate, baby girl. Now I get to make all the rules.”
I ran down the stairs and into the kitchen.
I was on one side of the center island. He was on the other. He walked, casually, rounding it.
I ran back toward the stairs.
The chase was something I kind of needed. Weirdly. It was probably something psychological about submitting to let go of my stress but fighting for my independence first. I didn’t know, exactly, but I craved the chase sometimes. It was so raw and visceral for me.
I was four or five steps up when I lost my footing and tripped.
He caught me before I landed.
My heart tripped, too.
“Fuck, Tia. What the fuck?” He scooped me tighter to him and stormed the rest of the way up, into the bed and sat, planting me on his lap.”
My eyes were wide. My heart went splat.
“No more fucking chasing! You wanna fall down the goddamn stairs while you’re pregnant? Fuck!”
He was mad.
I was horrified.
I could’ve hurt our baby. I could’ve killed our baby with my stupidity.
I started to bawl. I put my hands to my belly.
His anger melted away. I felt it evaporate.
“I’m so sorry,” I cried, saying it not to him, but to our yet-to-be-born, yet-to-even-show baby.
“Oh God.” I sniffled.
He laid down, me still in his arms, and threw the blankets over us.
“We need to get our fuckin’ act together. The both of us,” he muttered.
I looked at his face. There was a tear on his cheek, too. He pulled me close and kissed me.
“You okay?” he asked.
“No. I’m so s-stupid.”
“I love you,” he whispered, “That was stupid but you’re not stupid.”
“I love you. We’ll get it together. Starting now,” I promised him, promised myself.