“Did you have a valentine before I was born?”
I kiss the top of his head, breathe in the soft, sweet scent of his shampoo, and calm my heart before it starts racing.
“Just one.”
“Who was it?”
“It was a long time ago, Maxy. She was my friend, and I kept it a secret. Let’s sleep now, please. We have a busy day tomorrow.” Holding him tight to my chest, I whisper, “I love you beyond the hills.”
“Love you beyond the hills, Daddy.”
Satisfied that he has the answer he was looking for, it takes seconds for Max to fall asleep again. I’m not so lucky this time around. Twice, I hear the grandfather clock in the great hall chime the hour as I lie there thinking about Story. Old memories resurface. I replay every interaction we’ve had since she returned.
I go over our conversation at the town hall meeting a couple of days ago.
Suggesting the kissing booth was stupid. Reckless. Pointless. And given the look on Story’s face when I did, it was hurtful.
What did I think it would achieve? What did I want it to achieve?
Between the calls from Sienna that morning and thesurprise of seeing Story later, my head was not entirely screwed on. But beingthatclose to her—enough so I could make out each lash framing her big brown eyes and the fast-fading freckles scattered across her nose and breathe in the soft, earthy scent that always surrounded her—did something to me.
When I watched her slump down next to Agatha, there was a defeat to her I hadn’t seen in a very long time. I intrinsically knew I was the cause. I wanted the fire to return, the spark of annoyance that flashed across her face when she turned around and found me standing in front of her holding the urn, the one that she was struggling to bite back. When I sat next to her later, pulling the stunt with the coffee and wine was nothing more than an attempt to remind her I still knew her better than most people.
But when she looked at me, scanning my face in confusion, all I could think about was the pain of her leaving and how I would feel if she left again.
And so when Max wakes up, full of his usual beans, I’m incredibly groggy and in dire need of caffeine and more sleep.
It doesn’t help that he’s singing at the top of his lungs. I wouldn’t mind so much, but he inherited my inability to hold a note, and I can’t even tell what it’s supposed to be. Neither could the dogs, by all accounts, given that all three of them walked out the moment he began.
“Hendricks, you want me to drop Max again this morning?” Birgitta’s head pops around the doorframe of Max’s bedroom while I’m laying out his school uniform, as Max climbs up the side of his bunkbed wearing his Spider-Man costume.
Some mornings are just . ..
“Yes, thanks.” I’m heading over to the farmyard to check on the pregnant heifers, but not until ten, so I can squeeze in another hour or so of sleep if I’m lucky. But on the other hand, I haven’t been to the school all week . . . “Actually, no. I’ll do it. Can you take over here?”
“Sure.” She marches in, authoritative. Way more than I can summon this morning. “Max’s breakfast is ready downstairs. Let’s hurry up and get dressed so we can eat . . . His bag is packed, and there’s a clean uniform on the side too.”
The gratitude I have this morning is nothing short of immense. I have more than most people, more help than most people, and I still find it hard to cope. I don’t know how single parents manage.
“Thank you. I’ll see you downstairs. Max . . .” But he’s not listening, so I slip out and hear him yell, “Birgitta, watch this.” It’s followed by a thud, and Iknowhe’s jumped from the top of his bunk—something he’s not allowed to do.
I wait for the sound of crying—anything—but nothing comes except a stern warning from Birgitta not to do it again, so I rush back to my room and jump in the shower.
“You look nice. Smell good too.” Clementine smirks as she passes me on her way into the kitchen, twenty minutes later.
It’s the smirk that stops me from responding. There’s an implication there I don’t appreciate, much less want to acknowledge.
“Max, hurry up. We can’t be late this morning,” I yell, hoping that he’s somewhere close by, but who knows. He inhaled his porridge and ran off. I pray he’s not back in his Spider-Man costume, or wewillbe late.
“Boo!”
Dropping the bags, I clasp my hands to my chest and feign surprise at my son peering from behind the stone pillar in the great hall. “Oh! You got me.”
It’s a move that never fails to have him doubled over with laughter. I’m not even sure at this point whether he realizes I’m mostly playing along, but I do know that he usually only plays hide-and-seek when I’m distracted. It’s his way of getting my full attention.
“I got you, Daddy.”
“You did, bud. Now get in the car, please.”
