I do know. I know I’m loved. I know I matter. I have always been able to rely on the strength of my family. Why, then, is it so hard to forgive myself for what happened?
8
RYDER
Luke is playingwith his toy train inside the bathroom as I hunch over the tub, giving Cora a bath.
“Dad, your phone.” He grabs my phone, holding it out to me as he sits down on the toilet lid.
I’m on my knees on a folded-over bath towel, trying to wash Cora’s hair without getting the suds in her eyes.
“Okay, bud,” I say. “I’ll check it in one second.”
I smooth Cora’s hair into a pile on top of her head and lean my face close to hers. “Listen, baby,” I say, “you’ve got a pile of teeny tiny baby chipmunks wrapped up in your hair. If you hold very, very still, they won’t fall into the water. Can you hold your head level so they don’t get wet?”
This is one of Cora’s favorite games. If she’s in the mood to play, I’ve got about ninety seconds before she forgets and starts moving around so much the shampoo bubbles drip into her face.
“Munk?” she squeals, because chipmunks is a word she hasn’t quite mastered yet.
“Yes, now hold still.” I wipe my hands on the bath towel and check the message. It’s from Gracie.
You really did leave a key under the mat! But I’m not letting myself in… That seems forward, even for me.
A smile spreads across my face as I quickly punch in a reply.
I’m elbows-deep in bathwater. You’ll be doing me a favor if you let yourself in. Grab something to drink, make yourself at home. I’ll be down ASAP.
I set the phone on the bathroom vanity and grab the cup I’ve used to rinse Cora’s hair since she was an infant.
While she covers her eyes with her hands, I rinse out the shampoo, miraculously not getting any in her eyes.
I make quick work of getting her out of the tub, getting her into her pajamas, and brushing her hair.
Our bedtime routine after the bath usually takes a solid half hour, but with Grace downstairs, I need to give her a heads-up about story time and our usual routine.
I race down the stairs, finding Grace standing in front of the bookshelf behind the couch, thumbing through a photo album. It’s marked Memories, and she’s smiling as she flips the pages.
“Hey,” I say. “Sorry I took so long.” I’m so excited to see her, I hardly register what I look like. The front of my T-shirt is soaked, and the knees of my threadbare gray sweatpants are too.
She looks up at me, then looks me over from head to toe.
I walk up to her and shake my head. She’s wearing a sleeveless black tank top that’s all flowy and low-cut, exposing a sensual bit of cleavage. Tonight, she has on pink jeans that would look positively girly if they weren’t intentionally shredded and frayed. She’s barefoot, her black wedge sandals resting by the front door. Her hair is loose and soft, the black wings of liner around her eyes in stark contrast to the rest of her face which looks dewy and clean. No bold makeup, no lipstick. Just her.
“You look stunning. I’m so glad I dressed up just for you,” I say, trying to make a joke out of how seriously inadequate I feel next to her.
“Are you fucking with me?” She gives me a grimace. “You make loungewear look stupid good.”
“Is that a good thing?” I hesitate a minute, but then I open my arms, and she comes in for a hug.
She lifts up on her toes and whispers against my ear. “That’s a very good thing,” she says.
I growl a little and hold her close but then quickly release her. “Bedtime normally takes a while,” I say. “Can you give me maybe thirty minutes? Make yourself at home. Dig through my drawers, eat my food…”
She pats her belly. “I ate with my parents, remember? But I will stalk your paperwork. Make copies of your social security number. Stuff like that.”
“Excellent,” I say, not caring what she does, as long as she stays. “Every strong relationship starts with identity theft or some other felony.”
“Is identity theft a felony?” she asks, lifting a brow. “I might be in more trouble than I thought.”
