Out on a Limb

by Hannah Bonam-Young

Even with that shred of comfort, I don’t think I’ve ever felt as judged as I do right now. Not by Doctor Salim, of course, but by the world outside. I can almost sense it—the millions of invisible eyes set on me.

I think some people have loneliness built in. It often seemed that there was not enough attention in the world that could fill that void inside her. I worry that I only recognize that because I have it too.

I, like most women my age, have learned to hate myself just enough to appease others. If you’re too fond of how you look, you’re told you’ll be unlikeable. Labeled as self-involved, egotistical, or stuck-up. But it’s purposeful—pitting us against one another. Consumerism demands we remain unsatisfied with our appearance. If we all liked ourselves, dozens of industries would crumble like Babylon. We have to want a solution to whatever or however many problems plague us in order to keep those factories running. To keep money in men’s pockets.

What I realized, though probably far too young, is that some things can’t be “fixed.” There were no “Ten Quick Ways to Grow More Fingers” magazine articles for me to read as a teen. No creams that would blur or fix or correct my hand. Just deep pockets, long sleeves, and strategic posing that kept my hand out of view. Hidden like all flaws should be.

“You can’t change anything by hiding it. You’ll just look back on memories and realize you tried to erase yourself. And how sad that would be.”

I didn’t want to achieve despite myself. I didn’t want to defy anything. I just wanted to feel ordinary. To not overcompensate every day. I wanted to be bad at things and have people laugh at me because that’s life. I didn’t want pity. And when I was great at something like swimming, I didn’t want to feel praised for what I’d overcome. I wanted to just be good. It fucks you up, competing against low expectations. Nothing feels like a win.

“So…do we—do we get married?” “What?” I jump back. “No! What? Why would we get married? We don’t even know each other!” He sits straighter, blowing out a breath. “Sorry, I’m not sure what came over me just then.” “The ghost of your great-grandfather, evidently,” I say.

Turned louder, the baby’s heartbeat fills the room, reverberating against the walls in a perfect rhythm. The most life-altering, exquisite sound. It’s all I can hear. Above my panted breaths. Above Bo’s seemingly subconscious happy murmurs of amazement. Above everything. The city outside, the voice of anxiety in my head, the subtle creaking of my ribs tightening under the weight of all this change. Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum. Like a steady train. Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum. Not a mistake. Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum. A happy accident.

“Don’t do that,” Bo says sternly. “What?” I blink at double speed. “Dismiss yourself like that. That sounds really fucking cool and important to me. Don’t trivialize what you accomplished.”

“You must miss her,” I say, meaning his mother—but the possibility that it could have meant either Cora or his mother isn’t lost on me. Sometimes the people who haunt us are still alive. I understand that too.

“I wouldn’t want to be famous. I don’t hold a lot of weight to my opinions, and I think these days, famous people are expected to have a stance on everything. Twenty years ago, celebrities were just celebrities. Now, they’re visiting the United Nations and talking about nature conservation as if there aren’t more qualified people to do that.”

The more I get to see Bo in his natural habitat, the more I realize that he cares a lot about other people’s comfort.

Then, there’s all he does for me. Like knocking on my door every night before bed with a fresh glass of ice water and a new comic book to read. Or the giant body pillow I found in my room after work yesterday with a note that said for the world’s best baby mama.

Bo is clearly the type of guy who takes people under his wing. A natural caretaker type. It makes me glad to know that my kid will have a dad who goes above and beyond for the people he cares about.

I take a second to appreciate the veins in his hands. The sheer size of them causes envy on the best of days, but the strength and definition of them isn’t lost on me either. I know it’s ironic, to have some sort of hand fetish. But in my defense, I never even considered hands as anything other than limbs prior to Bo.

“Celebratory?” I ask. “What are we celebrating?” “Your new plan. The kid you’re growing. You, in general.”

“I wouldn’t have consciously decided to get pregnant. That wouldn’t be fair to you. But if I had the choice to go back, I wouldn’t. I needed this.” It’s a simple admission, but completely true. I needed this.

A deeper part of me realizes, too, that I needed Bo. Someone who, from the moment I stuck out my hand, has understood me at a fundamental level that many people cannot. Someone kind, compassionate, hard-working, who believes in me.

“Me either,” Bo says decidedly, even though I didn’t ask. “I wouldn’t go back.” His voice washes over me like warm, silky water passing down my spine. Relaxing every muscle. Dismissing a worry that I’d kept hidden, even from myself.

“Yeah, I think I would. I know the timing isn’t exactly ideal, but if you lined up every other person in the world who I could’ve had a baby with, I’d choose you again. You’re going to be a fantastic mom, Win.”

“You made me feel really wanted,” he says, so earnestly that it lands in my chest, reverberating like an echo in an abandoned tunnel. “You…” He laughs anxiously. “Fuck, why is it so hard to describe?” I recognize it. What he’s trying to say but can’t find the words for. Because I felt it too. So why did he leave? “Seen?” I ask, making two fists in my lap. He nods. “Understood,” he adds. “Like…I don’t know.” He laughs softly, looking up to the left. “Like maybe I’m fine as I am. As is.”

“It was the very first time anyone had paid attention to that part of me during sex. None of my hookups or my ex included all of me in their lust. I felt wholly desired with you, Bo. Not just the best bits.”

“You deserve to have that in every experience,” he says

It’s so much easier to communicate insecurities when you don’t need to communicate them at all. Isn’t that all we ever want? To be seen and heard? Validated, even when we’re not able to ask for it.

“Maybe what we lack in limbs, we make up for in enthusiasm and wits. Who else do you know that could go swimming, launch a business plan, and name a baby all before lunch?”

There’s something so intimate about being held with zero expectations or reason beyond wanting to. Something so natural about Bo and me moving our bodies in sequence, in no rush to step away. Something so inherently safe about being in his arms.

So when he presses me even closer, dips his chin to the top of my head, and curls his arms around me in more of an embrace than a dance, I let him, with zero hesitation, as I relax into the warm, solid comfort of his hold. “One more?” he asks, his voice broken. I nod against him. One more song fades and blurs into five, or maybe even more. I’ve lost track. Eventually, when the turntable clicks, signaling the need to flip the record over, neither of us moves. If anything, Bo holds me tighter against him. “You okay?” I whisper into his chest after a few moments of silence. “I’m just trying to come up with the right words,” he says, leaning his cheek against the top of my head, his nose on my hairline with deep, steady breaths. “To thank you for everything.”

“I should be thanking you,” I say. “For letting me crash here, for being so kind to me, for—” I almost say loving me before I catch myself. “For being such a good friend.”

“Win, I don’t think you understand. I spent my birthday last year alone on my couch, drinking and miserable. I was so lonely. I felt like half a person. I—” He chokes up and clears his throat. “I felt hopeless.” He sniffles, and I fight the urge to pull away to look at his face. To wipe his tears, if there are any. “But then you came along.”

“I’d do it all over again to be at that party,” he says. “To meet you. To get Gus.”

“If we hadn’t met…if this hadn’t happened,” I say, placing a hand on my small bump, “I think I’d have been stuck playing it safe forever.”

Accepting that this is the best thing that could have happened to us. To get us out of our own personal dark spots. To give us purpose. To find each other. Because even though we aren’t together, I can no longer imagine a version of my life without Bo in it. Bo is simply lovely. Plain and true and all-encompassing.

“Love is stupid, Win,” she says softly. “So what are you going to do about it?”

“But I think if you ask him, he’ll be gentle with your heart.”

And his desperation does something to my heart. A tiny twist, like wringing out a wet cloth. I love him so much it’s truly painful. As if every time I resist telling him how I feel when the truth boils up so close to the surface, a tiny piece of myself withers and dies.

“That’s the question I was going to ask tonight,” Bo interrupts. “Who in this world matters the most to you?” “You,” I answer simply, pleading with him to hear me. What I said and all that it means. “You,” he repeats. “It’s you for me too. With a very close second,” he says, his eyes on my belly.

I want to be braver than I am. I want to ask what that means to him. What it means for us. Whether he feels this longing between us so deep inside him, so full and abundant, that he’s also started to believe that we have souls after all. Simply because something inside me is entirely his. Something I know would follow me into the next life, or beyond that, even if I left this body behind.

I thought, before today, that I knew what the phrase bittersweet meant. So much of these past few months has been just that. Wonderful with a painful layer hidden underneath. But this…this is what bittersweet means. All ten fingers and toes. Every sense of relief is sharply followed by shame. Every wave of shame is met with confusion. Confusion gives way to guilt.

With that thought comes another pang of guilt. For mourning, even for a split second, the loss of similarity. The inherent narcissism of wanting my kid to be like me. Because that’s what parents should do, right? Separate their kids from themselves and their own experiences so that they have room to grow into their own people. Accept them and offer unconditional love along the way.

“You’re perfect, Win,” Bo says, as easily as breathing. “Of course I’d want them to have every part of you.”

His jaw hardened and his eyes soft and held on me with a concern that has me wanting to smooth out the line between his brows with my thumb. More than that, actually. I wish I could take out his soul and smooth it out too, remove every wrinkle and crease and stain and give it back to him as good as new.

Let me in, I want to say amidst the silence. Love me. Trust me. I won’t let you down. I swear it.

“You’ve given me so much, Win.” “No…” “Ever since I met you, it’s like every part of me has healed a little bit. Do you know that? Do you know that you do that for people?”

“I think we both needed a fresh start. I think we gave that to each other.”

Bo shakes his head, smiling. “I’ve been talking about you to pretty much anyone who will listen for months,” he laughs out softly. “I thought you knew, Win. I thought it was so painfully obvious how I feel about you. What I want here. I thought that’s why you set such clear boundaries. I thought you didn’t feel the same.”

I kiss him. Because I have to. Because I can. Because it’s right. And he kisses me back, fierce yet gentle, and it’s like a thousand hours spent wanting each other spilling between us. His hands go from my hips to my hair, clinging to me.

I don’t question if he wants this, because he’s told me he does. I don’t question if it’s a good choice or a bad one or worry about all it could ruin. Because when you love someone this much, when you’ve seen their hurt and their heart and you recognize them as your own—you’re left with no choice but to give yourself over to it. And I’m tired of being scared. I long to be loved by a man like Bo. I long to love him, the way he deserves.

Our souls were tied a long time ago, I think. We’re just finally admitting it to each other.

I feel it too, wanting to fuse our bodies together—the need to become one living thing.

“I wish I could…” I say, not knowing where I want that sentence to end. What I mean is I want him inside me. But not only in the way he will inevitably be soon. But burned inside of me. Like lightning hitting a tree and starting a fire from within. I want him, his life, his lessons, his soul and its impressions to be branded under my skin.