“Mommy! Brooks! Mommy!”
I recognize Deacon’s raspy tone and scoot back, putting a foot of distance between me and Brooks. Deacon stops at the foot of the steps, and rubs his eyes with a fist. I move to go to him, but before I can, Brooks cuts in front of me and scoops my son into his arms, hoisting him on his hip.
“What’s up, buddy?” He begins to climb the stairs as Deacon rubs his face on his shoulder.
“I had a nightmare,” my son says. I move my hand over my heart and trail behind them, but when I reach the landing, I halt and simply watch as a different kind of magic unfolds.
“What was your dream?” Brooks asks, pulling back Deacon’s blanket, then setting him on the bed.
Riggs sits up and rubs his eyes.
“What happened?” my other son asks.
“Your brother had a bad dream,” Brooks explains.
“Me, too.” Riggs climbs out of his bed and crawls over his brother, working his small body into the covers with him.
Brooks chuckles, then tucks the two of them in. But rather than leaving, he sits at their bedside and makes up a story about people made of candy. He never asks them what their dream was, probably because he’s had enough nightmares of his own to know that kids don’t like reliving them. Instead, he replaces the startling dreams with thoughts of silliness, inviting the boys tohelp him tell the story, asking them what the candy people do for a living. Naturally, the candy people are baseball players. And the two best players are named Deacon and Riggs. At one point, my boys are giggling.
The story goes on long enough that eventually I sit outside their doorway so I can listen to the end. And when they finally fall asleep, Brooks backs out of the room quietly and helps me to my feet.
He tries to break our hold once I’m standing, but I cling to him. I rise on my toes and swing my free arm around his neck, and I kiss him to let him know exactly how I feel. Even if I can’t say it, I feel it. And by the way he kisses me back, I think he knows.
TWENTY-THREE
BROOKS
I don’t know if I’ll regret this. But I read over Pen’s email a dozen times, and there’s something about it that feels important. Not for me, but for our daughter.
Holly is mine. She’s mine alone. I don’t think Pen will fight to get her back, or to have shared custody. I don’t believe she would have written the words she did if that were the case. She knows her flaws, and she knows some of them may be lifelong battles—ones she could lose.
That’s how Pen and I connected. I was in a low place of self-pity, and we’d talked at the pub from time to time, so she was the willing ear the night I bottomed out. I let out all of my anger over my parents, over the death of my mother, and the fucking vehicle I was living in because of them. Pen understood because she’d been raised in a similar household. Only rather than getting away, she fell in deep.
The night we hooked up, she was several months into a recovery. She said she was feeling proud of who she was becoming. But she was lonely. So was I. And we gave each other comfort. Holly was made from something peaceful, something beautiful amid chaos and heartbreak. I like to think she is everything that is and was good between Pen and me.
I didn’t want to force Pen to meet me at Earl’s, what with it being a bar and all, and her an alcoholic. There isn’t much in this town that’s open early besides the coffee shop outside city hall, though, so that’s what I went with. Now that I’m waiting for her here with Holly, I’m questioning whether Earl’s might have been better. It looks a bit like a set-up or a sting, with cop cars parked outside police headquarters, and town employees grabbing their morning coffee inside. At least the patio’s nice.
I stand when I see her familiar green Subaru pull into one of the street parking spots a few spaces away. I clutch Holly against my chest, spinning her around so her legs can kick the air rather than me. She’s been busy lately, and she’s starting to master crawling. If I put her down, there’s no telling how far she’ll escape to.
I hold up a hand to wave hello. Pen is sitting in her car, engine off, as though mustering the courage to confront me. Us. I have no animosity, so I wave her to join me and smile, hoping it makes her feel safe.
She finally gets out, pulling a patchwork purse over her shoulder. She’s wearing a long denim dress, and her golden hair falls in braids on either side of her face. She looks healthy.
“Hi,” I say first.
Her eyes are misty as she smiles with closed lips.
“Hi,” she says, her raspy voice a little clearer than I remember it. She’s doing well; I can tell.
“She says hi, too,” I say, lifting Holly’s hand and forcing it to wave. She coos and kicks her feet forward before laughing.
Pen’s hand covers her mouth and her eyes tear up.
“My God! She’s so big,” she whispers behind her palm.
“She’s crawling,” I tell her.
She drops her hands to show her mouth agape, but her smile creeps back in.
