The kid gives me a thumbs up and runs off.
Lincoln and I are left alone in the kitchen. He looks at me. I look at him. I feel a tingle in my belly.
Why do I feel so self-conscious all of a sudden? Why am I aware of the wrinkles in my dress, the rip on the knee of my lacy black pantyhose, the less-than-perfect state of my hair? How does Lincoln do this to me?
No. No, no, no. Hell no, my guardian angel whispers.Don’t fall into those captivating blue eyes again.
“I’m just gonna…” My thumb darts over my shoulder, pointing toward the exit.
Lincoln awkwardly clears his throat. “Um, yeah. Of course.”
I take my time shuffling down the hall and up the stairs, looking at all the framed pictures on the wall. Cameron’s cute now, but he sure was an adorable toddler. Those cheeks and those tiny, little teeth. I bet he was a little stinker in his earlier years.
Lincoln is so handsome, too. Every picture of his makes my stomach tingle again. But when I stop in front of the newest picture he installed on the wall while I was out today, I run a palm over my middle to get the butterflies to simmer down.
It’s a picture from our wedding day. Our first dance. Him and me tangled in each other’s arms, staring at each other like there’s not a single other person in the room.
It’s all for show, Jules.It’s just a part of our facade.Because every married couple has wedding photos on the wall.
Tearing my eyes away, I head up the stairs. When I make it to Cameron’s bedroom, he’s launching himself across the room and onto his twin bed.
I tentatively walk in. “So, how do we do this? Do we read a book?”
He nods. “I’d like that.”
I stroll over to his small bookcase, and we take our time reviewing the titles before Cameron suggests that I choose one. I eagerly pick one about a cool cat who has quite the adventure when he goes to school. I only get a couple pages in, and it becomes clear that Cameron knows this one well. He reads along with me, almost by heart.
When story time is over, I help adjust the little boy’s race car blanket and get him settled in bed.
“Can I tell you something?” he asks, suddenly looking nervous.
“Of course. Anything.”
“I like you. I think you’re really cool.” Guilt washes over his little face. “But I still love my mommy.”
My heart. My stinkin’ heart.
“Oh, buddy.” I lean in and give him a hug, hoping he doesn’t mind. His tiny arms wrap around me, as we share a quiet, tender moment.
Then I lean back and look into big, sleepy eyes that look so much like his dad’s. “Cameron, I promise you that I will never take your mom’s place. That’s not what I want. I like you a lot too, and you’re special enough to have lots of people who love you without having to replace each other in your life. Does that make sense?” I ask, noticing his eyes are drooping now.
Cameron gives me a smile, and then he falls asleep mid nod.
“Good night, sweet boy,” I whisper, wiping his blond hair out of his face and then tiptoeing out of his bedroom.
When I walk back into the kitchen, I find Lincoln at the sink, loading the dishwasher. He organizes our plates between the racks, straightens himself, and then pauses to roll his shoulders. It’s then that I realize how tired and tense he seems.
I’m quickly discovering that there’s never a break for working parents. He starts his day earlier because he has to get Cameronup and ready for school. He spends the day handling work, in countless meetings, the pressure of providing for his family always present in his mind. Then he comes home and returns to dad mode.
I make a mental note to try and pick up some of the house duties while I’m here. If I can pitch in with some cooking or cleaning, it’s the least I can do while I’m jobless and living under this roof.
“Did Cameron go to bed easily?” Lincoln asks when he sees me.
“He practically passed out when we finished our book.” I step forward, gently laying my hand on my husband’s back. He tenses under my fingers. “Hey, what if I rub your shoulders? You look exhausted.”
He pauses, a soapy glass in his hand, hesitating. “Oh. Uh. Yeah, if you’re sure?”
“I am. You worked. You cooked. Then you handled the cleanup. A massage is just my way of saying ‘thank you’.” I take another step closer. “Now, sit.”
