Finding Center by Katherine Locke

to say the same thing.”
    It’s different to kiss her tonight. We touch constantly, and we kiss almost as often as we simply touch each other. I have no illusions that we’re an unusually physical couple but I think we need more reassurance than other couples. I’ve never felt like I was trying to kiss her with a certain intention. Kisses aren’t for messages. That’s what words are for. But we’ve run out of words and we’re terrible at them too often and kissing—that’s where we excel.
    So tonight, I’m kissing her an apology for wanting her to be someone she isn’t. I kiss her an apology, running our tongues together, for being headstrong and stubborn. I kiss her an apology for never knowing how to say this aloud. “
I
am sorry for the ways that I am impossible
,” I whisper to her with my fingers slipping beneath her shirt, gliding over her soft skin and hard muscles. “
I
am sorry for the ways in which I’m unforgiving
,” I murmur against her mouth, making her gasp and rock against me.
    And I hear her too, her fingers digging into my scalp. “
I
am sorry for the ways in which I’m afraid.
” And she kisses me with a feverishness she hasn’t had since we were young. “
I
am sorry for the ways in which I let fear control me.
” She grinds down against my knee and gasps, opening her mouth enough for my tongue. “
I
am sorry for the ways in which I shut you out.
”
    I want to drown in her. And tonight, she lets me.

Aly
    Panic continues to wake me up in the morning in a cold sweat, my heart pounding and my hands clutching at my stomach. Multiple doctors’ visits chalk it up to psychological grief but I’m already on medication for anxiety. Despite the risks, they decide not to take me off those medicines but can’t prescribe anything else. They suggest I go to yoga and meditate. They assure me that the panic attacks will fade, just like Ham thought they would.
    Useless suggestions and reassurances. If I can’t get out of bed, how do I get to yoga? How I’ll feel in three weeks doesn’t change the pain and anxiety that’s clawing at me right now. A trash can full of positive pregnancy tests, a handful of doctors’ visits, a stressed-out boyfriend and an overused therapist. I’m too busy trying to breathe to be happy. The joy in this has been pushed into the margins.
    This morning, Zed’s hand runs from my head down my bare shoulders, down my back, all the way down to my ass, and then back up my body. I clutch the blankets up to my throat and shake my head again.
    He says with false cheeriness, “Just think, only thirty-three more weeks to go.”
    “Not helping,” I mutter into the pillow.
    He sinks back onto the bed and kisses my bare shoulder. “I know. I’m sorry.”
    I wish I could remember what seven weeks felt like last time. I wish I had anything to compare this to but my memory blips out when I try to remember anything from the first pregnancy. I remember telling Zed, and I remember losing it. I lost everything else.
    “If you’re not going in, you should call Jonathan,” Zed whispers against the back of my neck. “You don’t have to go, Aly, but you should probably think about telling him. Give him a chance to be understanding.”
    “I just want to stay here,” I say, flushing at the smallness of my own voice. I roll over at last, releasing the covers from my chest. Zed gives me a wary smile, the kind where his mouth moves a little bit, but his eyes remain dark with worry, crinkled in the corners and heavy with sleep still. I reach up and rub his stubble with my knuckles.
    He catches my wrist and turns my hand to press a kiss to the center of my palm. It’s a lightning bolt to my heart. The pulse steadies into a rhythm. “I know.”
    He disappears and I hear him in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher noisily. I reach out, finding my phone.
    I text Sofia. I hate Madison. And I hate early mornings. And I’m cranky.
    She texts me back almost right away. Madison’s a