She is not a terrible mother, she tells herself fiercely, for this bright, guilty flare of relief.
SEVEN
She loves the house bestwhen Bren is home to fill it, when the weekend stretches warm and languid before them with nothing to do but follow their own tangled whims. They’ll lie in bed for hours with morning light pooling in their collarbones and slipping between their fingers like ribbons, and they’ll talk and plan and dream together.
About the house and the future and each other.
Something about those early hours makes her feel wrapped in an interminably peaceful cocoon, as if time is an amorphous thing, rich and endless, and it is no sin to waste it when she’s in his arms. His fingers are in her hair, his mouth on her throat, a worshipful tenderness in the way he promises to put the moon on a stick like a candied apple so she can crack it open with her teeth.
In these moments, when they are all hot skin and open mouths and he is inside her, it is easy to forget everything ugly about the past week.
“There’s an estate sale tomorrow about an hour from here.” He drops back on the pillows and pretends he’s not out of breath. She thinks he’s adorable, but he also has way too much energy. “Do you think I, uh, disturbed the baby?”
She almost laughs. “You’re such an idiot.”
“So, it’s a stupid question? Pretend I didn’t ask.” He pulls her into his arms and she tucks against him, their skin fractious and hot on collision, her softness molding into his hard chest.
Her smile is fond but all mischief. “But I want to talk about your sex education. I need a good laugh.” She pokes his cheek and he sticks his tongue out at her and for a second she isn’t a mother and a wife who should be serious and responsible; she is only twenty-two and in love with a beautiful, stupid boy who blushes adorably when embarrassed.
“Pity I’ve moved on to a new topic,” he says breezily, but his ears are still pink. “Estate sales.” He’s rumpled and breathless and so, so young right then, and she can’t help but feel soft for him. “The sale is barely advertised, so not a lot of people will be there, and I really want this 1890s wingback armchair set because it’ll go perfectly with the sunroom collection my parents already have. Also, I need you there to tell me not to buy too much useless shit.”
“I do so love being the pessimistic voice of reason.” She rolls away from him and he chases, propping himself up above her so he can lower his face to kiss her collarbone.
“We could go out to lunch after. Somewhere really, really nice.”
Elodie raises her eyebrow. “We are not taking Jude anywhere fancy. Picture this instead: McDonald’s.”
“I was thinking”—Bren kisses his way down to her breasts—“we could leave Jude with Ava for the day. We never go out alone, you and me.”
The sleepy, comfortable smile that had been toying the corner ofElodie’s mouth drops. She gives him the smallest shove so he rolls off her and thumps onto the mattress on his back. His pout is playful, but the confusion is there over why she would reject his reasonable plan.
Ava is perfect; her child is perfect. One hour with Jude and she’ll realize Elodie is a terrible mother, and Jude is out of control, and he’ll be hated, and she can’t bear for him to be hated—
“I can’t do that on such short notice,” Elodie says. “It’s not fair on Ava. And Jude isn’t ready for a day without me. Plus, this week has been really hard, and he’s still adjusting to even being in this country.”
“Hey. Hey.” Bren picks up her hand and threads their fingers. “It’s fine, we’ll take Jude. Family day out instead. All three—fourof us.”
She breathes out. Tension unwraps its charred fingers from around her throat.
“But”—there’s something careful about his voice—“Ava does know what he’s like.”
Elodie glances up sharply, her last conversation with Ava prickling against her skin like stinging nettles. “She’s barely been around him.”
They’ve been cloistered in the house these last few months without much interaction from his relatives, something Bren hasn’t seemed to mind and Elodie has been endlessly grateful for. They’re still settling in. They’re busy renovating. When Ava does come over—usually with a casserole and a warm smile as she asks how everyone is—Elodie keeps Jude tucked away in the nursery. The few times they’ve visited Ava’s immaculate house, Elodie lets Jude watch videos on her phone, a rare treat these days since he’s without a TV, and it keeps him quiet and occupied.
She has worked overtime to be sure the jagged edges of her failings aren’t on display and Bren is going to undo everything. The urge to snap at him blisters her tongue.
He rumples a hand through his bedhead, chagrin in his smile,oblivious to her annoyance. “I mean, I mention some stuff to her, but it’s not a big deal. Ava is the sweetest person ever. She understands.”
How about you keep your fucking mouth shut about my son?But she doesn’t say that. She waits for the windswept fury to funnel through her and smooth out, because she is not allowed to be the type of person to rage, to snap, to be merciless and vindictive. Not anymore. For her husband, she is new.
Bren isn’t complaining about her child behind her back; he’s sharing his life with the sister who has always loved and cared for him and now, by extension, cares about Elodie and Jude.
Perfect Januarys.
“My family isn’t like yours.” Bren’s voice is so sweet that a rush of unsteady emotion burns behind her eyes. “I swear on my life, no one will hurt you or Jude. You trust me, right?”
A traitorous tear slips down her cheek and he chases it with a kiss. She twines her long, graceful arms about his neck and pulls him in tight and hard and fierce.
