Today Greyson has the day off, and we had planned on going to the zoo since we never made it last week, but when we woke up this morning, it was pouring. So instead we’re finding fun little things to do with Gracie, like having her help with breakfast.
Worst. Idea. Ever.
We ended up with an ungodly amount of eggshells in the pancake mix. It got to the point where we gave up looking for them and simply made a new batterwithoutlittle Miss Ford’s help.Well, actually, her last name is Teller. But I know that’s something Greyson is working on changing.
Then we made French toast, nowthatGracie was good at. She enjoyed dumping the piece of bread into the mixture until she decided to try and shove it in her mouth or rip the bread apart and throw it everywhere.
Have you ever tried to remove something from an eleven-month-old baby’s grip? I swear, it’s as if they suddenly turn into the Hulk, and it becomes impossible to pry those tiny little fingers open.
Needless to say, we do not plan on doing that again anytime soon. Although we did have a good laugh afterwards while cleaning up the mess.
As we sit at the kitchen island eating breakfast, Gracie in her highchair beside Grey, I watch him trying to teach her how to use her fork to eat. The way he smiles when she picks it up, then slowly brings her hand to the side of her little tabletop and lets it drop to the floor with a squeal.
Greyson laughs, shaking his head, but picks it up and gives it back to her, only for her to do it again. Her eyes stay focused on her dad the whole time, her smile spreading wider and wider the closer her hand gets to the side before letting go of her fork once more and laughing when Greyson fakes a gasp.
Butterflies take flight in my stomach as my heart grows in size. He’s such an amazing dad; I can picture him being like this with all his kids. Suddenly, I find myself thinking about the conversation I had with my dad—about if Greyson and I wanted the same things. I haven’t had the courage to bring it up yet, fearing what his answer might be. But I feel like now would be a good time to bring it up.
“Wolf?”
He turns to me and smiles. He hated that nickname when I gave it to him, but now he softens every time I say it. “What is it, Bunny?”
“Is marriage something you really want?”
The question clearly catches him off guard. His smile slips, and his eyes go wide as he blinks a few times. “What?” he finally manages to say once the shock has faded slightly.
“You mentioned it in your song. I was just wondering if it was something you actually wanted,” I say delicately.
He takes a sip of coffee from his‘best cat mom ever’mug with the picture of a cat sticking up its middle fingers. It’s bothhilarious and makes absolutely no sense since we don’t have a cat, and he’s not a mom.
It’s the latest one I got him, and when he saw it, he was entirely speechless. He claimed he had no idea how to react to that one, and I didn’t blame him. It was the whole point of it.
When he puts his cup back down, he turns slightly in his stool toward me. “Where is this coming from?” His voice seems cautious, and I can practically see the beads of sweat forming at his hairline.
Wanting to ease his panic state, I place my hand on his thigh and give him a reassuring smile. “I was merely curious. I’m not expecting you to propose, Greyson. You can breathe. I’ve just been wondering about the song and how you see your future playing out.”
His lungs empty as the stress from his body vanishes. “If I’m with someone I can’t imagine spending my life without, then yeah, I think I’d like that,” he says with a shrug as he examines my face for any sign of a reaction.
I nod, making sure to keep my expression blank. “How about kids? I know you already have Gracie, but do you see yourself having more?”
“Jesus, Em.” He brings his hands up and passes them through his hair. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack this early in the morning?” He chuckles nervously, and I instantly regret asking the question, realizing that there’s a good chance I don’t like the answer he would give.
I remove my hand from his thigh and turn back to my plate, picking up my fork and spearing a piece of pancake. “Never mind, just forget I asked. It was a silly question, anyway,” I rush out as I feel my eyes well with tears and try to blink them away.
He sighs deeply as I hear his hands come back down, but I don’t look at him. I keep my eyes on my food as my mind startsspinning in a thousand different directions. Suddenly, he shifts completely in his seat, his whole body now facing me.
He takes my utensil from my hand, setting it back onto my plate, then grabs the bottom of my stool and spins me to face him as well. He grabs onto both of my hands and brings them to his lips, kissing my knuckles on each.
“It’s not a silly question, Em. I understand you must have questions about where this is going between us. But I don’t want to say something that I’m uncertain about and risk hurting your feelings. The truth is, Bunny, if you had asked me five months ago if I wanted to get married or have kids, the answer would have been no, without a doubt.” He gives me a sad smile before continuing.
“But everything has changed so drastically since then that I don’t think that answer is true anymore. Because I don’t regret Gracie for a second, and sometimes I find myself looking at you and thinking what it would be like to see you pregnant or to call you my wife.” He smiles again, this time with no hint of sadness.
“And if I’m being honest, that terrifies the crap out of me sometimes, because those aren’t thoughts I would normally have. So that’s why I don’t know exactly how to answer your questions. I did mean every word in my song, Emma, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t still scare me.” He releases one of my hands, bringing his to my cheek and tracing his thumb back and forth over my cheekbone.
“So how about I just say this? Eventually, yes, with time, I do see marriage and children in our future. How does that sound? Is that an okay answer for you?” he asks softly with a pinch of concern in his eyes, like he fears his answer might change things between us.
But how could it when he said, ‘our future’?
I bring my free hand up to his beard, passing my nails through the thick, coarse hair. It’s not long, just thick enough that whenI put my finger against his jaw, it disappears up to the first knuckle. I love playing in it, but I mostly love it when it leaves red marks on the inside of my thighs.
