Page 18

Starring Milo and Libby from The Minotaur’s Valentine

“ I t’s a boy. I know it’s a boy.”

“We have the ultrasound tech’s picture and notes. I know you wanted it to be a surprise, but we could open the—”

Libby whips her coffee cup down and her work bag off, slamming both down on the kitchen island. “Touch that envelope before Saturday, and you’re a dead minotaur. Doc already ordered the cake for the party, and your mother is running a betting pool with the girls at book club.”

“I’m just saying, we could find out if it makes you feel better.”

“Nothing will make me feel better,” Libby pouts at me.

“Honey, sit down and stop—”

“If it is a boy, it means that I’m going to be pregnant two extra weeks, which means I’m going to be pregnant for- ever .”

I swallow. Baby boy minotaurs do take longer to develop. Something about the bone density. Right now, my wife is 38 weeks pregnant, and she looks like she’s been attacked by a beanbag chair. She’s little. I’m not.

Baby seems to be taking after me.

“I can’t sit down because I can’t fit where I’m supposed to be sitting!” Libby curses like a sailor when she keeps trying to sit on the barstool next to our kitchen counter—and wobbling.

“Babe, lay on the couch. Put your feet up.”

“I can’t. If I do, my massive stomach will press on my aorta and kill me.” She glares at me—and notices the spatula in my hand. “Are you cooking?”

Now I’m worried that maybe the baby is taking blood flow from her brain.

The entire kitchen island is full—shallots, garlic, cream, knives, a huge wedge of parmesan.

.. But I don’t say that. I would like to live.

My wife is tiny, and I’m a minotaur with hooves like hubcaps and horns that could gore a telephone pole, but I know which one of us is truly dangerous.

It’s Libby. It’s always been Libby—and I’m honored, because you have to be truly badass to protect the badass.

“I’m cooking for you because I’m so lucky to have you and our baby,” I whisper, suddenly all choked up.

And Libby is immediately choked up right along with me. “I’m being so bitchy. I just hurt. My back is miserable, and I can’t get comfortable, and I can’t get full . I ate an entire box of crackers for lunch. What if I never lose this baby weight?”

I look at the much larger hips and bust that pregnancy has bestowed upon Libby, and I know I must tread very, very carefully. As I mentioned earlier, I would like to live.

“I would not mind that. I would enjoy that, but I don’t think that will happen,” I say in an even voice, trying not to stare at her glorious breasts, currently straining the purple scrubs she’s wearing.

“I’m making barley and asparagus risotto.

It’s extra filling. I promise.” I hope so.

It didn’t say that in the cookbook where I found it, but I’m making promises to the mother of my child here.

“I will put on extra, extra cheese if you want.” There. That should help.

“How long until dinner?”

“Twenty minutes, and I have to keep stirring this, or I’d come give you a foot rub. A back rub. I’d rub any part you want me to.”

If you thought that sounded pathetic, think again.

Libby’s face loses that strained look. Her shoulders ease, and she curls up in my arms as Freddy and Felix circle our ankles, tails happily high and curled at the tip.

“How about after dinner, we watch that Greek sitcom your father got me hooked on, eat all the ice cream in the house, and you rub my feet while I massage your tail.”

“You know what a tail massage does to me,” I whisper, putty in her little pale hands.

“Oh, I know. Believe me, I know. They say certain activities can help speed things up.”

“And you know, since this baby is fifty-percent human, fifty-percent taurosapien, he might not need the extra time to ‘bake.’”

“Maybe.” Libby smiles up at me. “I was wrong.”

A wise man would say something clever like, “Nonsense, my beautiful fertility goddess.” I ask, “About what?”

“I said nothing could make me feel better. But I was wrong. You always make me feel better, and even though I might fuss about aches and pains, there is nothing that makes me happier than thinking about how our little one is going to have the best dad in the world, and see a mom and dad who love each other. That’s something I didn’t have, you know? ”

I nod. “I’ll give them everything they could ever want, Lib. I promise.”

“If they take after their mom, all they’ll need is you.”

Sympathy hormones. They’re real. I wipe my eyes hurriedly. “I gotta stir the risotto. Pajama party dinner? Popcorn?”

I feel the baby try to punt Libby’s ribs into mine, and we both jump.

“Baby says yes,” she gasps.

“Baby and Mama get what they want.” I kiss her head and resume stirring as she slowly walks down the hall to our room.

“Risotto for three, coming up.”