36
Emma
My heart isa trampoline and a million different feelings are bouncing off it like they’re at the world trampoline championships.
We’re home from dinner.
Leftovers are in the fridge.
Bash is sleeping.
Yolko Ono is tucked in for the night.
The chickens outside are settled too.
Zen and Jack have left.
The security guard has left.
And I’m pulling Jonas up the stairs to my bedroom.
When I sold the house that was supposed to be my young bride starter home, I traded house size for lot size. Neighbors for privacy.
The four-bedroom, three-stall garage house was too much.
Especially knowing that I’d never have more than one baby.
That I wouldn’t ever let a man back into my bedroom.
But here we are, with me whispering for Jonas to skip the fourth step because it squeaks, on the way to my very, very, very feminine bedroom.
Where I hope he’ll tell me every detail of whatever fantasy left him unable to speak before dinner.
Bash’s door is shut, and there’s a soft glow coming from my bedroom.
I don’t remember leaving any of my lamps on, but it’s not unusual for one of my friends to do little things for me like switching on a lamp.
Or, apparently, scattering peach rose petals across my wooden floor.
My lips part as I stop in my bedroom doorway and take in the full scene.
It’s not just the rose petals complementing my peach-and-white bedding. It’s candles illuminating the wispy, soft, abstract painting of a woman’s profile, hidden behind petals much like those scattered across my floor, rug, and bed. Soft music coming from the Bluetooth speaker on my nightstand. The fairy lights strung over my live-edge wooden headboard. My gauzy curtains billowing softly in the breeze.
More candles visible around the soaking tub in my attached bathroom.
The quilt turned down. Pillows fluffed.
Water bottles on both nightstands.
And the scent of something soft and sweet, but very, very subtle, tickling my nose.
Jonas settles a hand on my waist as he stands behind me. “Beautiful,” he whispers thickly.
I swallow my instinctiveI didn’t set this up.
It doesn’t matter.
The candles and the rose petals and the—oh my god.
