A story I'm finally able to finish after sitting on it for about a week or two. Been preoccupied with grad school, job searching, and my family that there just hadn't been any time. But here is something for you. Part 2 is coming. Just not sure when. Anyway, hope you like and that this story makes a bit of sense. Lol Hope everyone is enjoying seeing our Nikki in AfroPop. :) So ready for Jacob's Ladder.

Chloe altered Abbie and Crane's lives. She suckled milk from Abbie's breast in the worst places: in the backseat of their car, with a conveniently broken AC and rolled-down windows; in a bathroom stall that whiffed of onions and piss; in a deserted aisle of a shoe store. Their baby girl hollered at 3a.m. until 4 because of a fever and an ear infection that cradled itself in her little body for a week. She caught diarrhea, which smeared the butt of her blue onesie in brown and stink. Chloe refused to catch sleep in the nursery across the hall, so they planted her between them every night. Both of them slept on the corner of the bed as not to smoother her.

They worked from their laptops and files and took turns feeding, changing, and burping her during the days and nights. They stayed be up together, completing additional work or simply watching the other smile down at Chloe while tracing her eyebrow or nose with their finger. Crane wanted to make sure Abbie had extra rest because of breastfeeding, so he let her sleep, though sometimes Chloe drew milk from the chewy nipple attached to the plastic bottle.

As expected, she stuffed them with sour and left-over bottles of milk, empty breast pumps, squelchy diapers, and dirty pastel baby clothes. Free time was in the shower, after their daughter was fed, changed, and asleep. Every other weekend, Jenny, Abbie's sister, babysat for them while they went to a hotel for a few days.

Unfortunately, Jenny had to go out of town this weekend, so their quality time was under the showerhead. The warm water erased the aches in their necks and backs from stooping over Chloe's crib. In the shower, they told stories about who they believed their first-born would become. Perhaps she'd be an FBI agent like Abbie, brave and sensible, or a museum curator like Crane, bookish and sincere. Maybe she'd forge her own path, something wild like thunderstorm wind. Chloe was all they talked about, all they addressed until today.

Abbie was tired of glossing over them. There were things she noticed about Crane ever since Chloe came home. She was sure he spotted a difference in her, too, because she was different.

"What's on your mind?" she asked him, turning off the shower.

He stepped out and grabbed a towel to wrap around her. Then he helped her out the tub before taking his own.

"I do not wish to share, Leftenant. Can we leave it at that?"

After she dried off, she slipped on her underwear, something with flowers and cotton. "You used to tell me everything. It's not like you to pull away, to stay quiet."

"Well, I do have a few thoughts I'd rather keep to myself if you do not mind." He pulled up his boxers.

"Chloe's changing you. I'm not sure if it's for better or worse."

Crane watched as she put on a t-shirt and a pair of sweat pants, such modest apparel for her. He was used to tank tops that enhanced her breasts and shorts and leggings that revealed her ass and thighs. "Besides, Leftenant, I'm not the only one who's been recognizably affected by her."

"Your point?"

"We haven't been intimate in a while," he said as he finished dressing.

"I have a lot going on, Crane. I can't just drop everything and make love."

"No, you cannot, nor do I expect you to. However, before we had Chloe, when our work schedules were at their worst, we still managed to participate in quite a few passionate rendezvous."

"Yeah, and that's how she got here in the first place. Now, if you don't mind, I rather we not discuss sex."

"What do you suppose we talk about?"

"You. How you're always so damn quiet nowadays." She stepped closer to him. "I miss your voice."

He stayed quiet for hours at a time while he tended to their daughter or caught up on work. She honestly didn't know why. He didn't whistle during their meals. He didn't ask 20 questions about technology or ramble on about the heroes in the American Revolution. When he wanted to make a witty remark or give his unsolicited advice, he froze mid-sentence, deciding to frown, hide his eyes from her, and say "Nevermind" instead. Abbie knew Crane to be sure of himself, even a little cocky and arrogant.

"Why must you deflect from yourself? This conversation shouldn't just be about me. I miss you, too." He slid his hands under her shirt; she pulled away.

"This isn't about me right now."

He reached to touch her cheek; she removed his hand, tugged down the hem of her shirt, and crossed her arms. Crane never knew Abbie to be self-conscious. Lately, she asked if a pair of jeans gave her a smaller waist or if her thighs were too full. And as if she'd never work again, he also caught her burying herself in more FBI case files. On more than one occasion, he pried them from her hands, then pulled her to bed for rest.

"I miss pleasuring you. You won't allow me to."

"There's no time, Crane."

He sighed, knowing it was only an excuse. "You stated that yesterday."

"And I'll say it again tomorrow."

"What are you so afraid of?"

She shook her head, stared at the mirror. "It's so foggy."

"Why don't you clean it?" He looked at it, too.

She started to wipe away the steam, but removed her hand. "Why don't you?"

"I'm afraid to see who I'm becoming."

Reaching for the doorknob, she said, "Me, too," and left.

Chloe was turning them into people they didn't recognize, that they didn't want to face just yet and admit to. Yet, at some point, they knew they had to clear the mirror.