“Two. I have two boys.” I force a smile—the smile I’ve worn for six months. The same one I give Steven every time he asks if I’m okay.
“I bet you’re busy,” Benny adds, back at the coffee pot now.
“Most days,” I murmur, palm still hovering over my abdomen.
“Are you done yet?” a grumpy man, with an even grumpier voice, cuts in as he stalks toward the coffee pot.
Benny grimaces, throwing an apologetic look my way. “Malcolm, this is Emma Jones.”
Malcolm waves without turning around, downs an entire mug in one swallow, and pours another. He’s taller than Benny, with blond hair and a scraggly beard. Benny is clean shaven, and put together, but this guy is gruff and clearly unbothered by anyone’s opinion. They elbow each other for the coffee pot, like brothers would. Like Easton and Sawyer would.
Benny clears his throat once Malcolm shoves him away from the counter, claiming the rest of the coffee for himself.
“Sorry about that. So, when would you like to start?”
“Wh—what? I have the job? Just like that?”
He shifts back and forth on his heels, giving a shrug as confirmation.
“We don’t need DaVinci,” Malcolm mutters.
“Dude.” Benny chides him under his breath, but Malcolm just shrugs. Again, unbothered.
“I—uh…can I think it over? And will you send me the need-to-know?” It’s easily the strangest interview I’ve ever been on, but how hard can being an art teacher be?
After the interview, I’m rushing. The boys’ first jiu jitsu competition leaves no space for processing anything or even telling Steven about it. I iron their belts and robes, pack snacks, charge my phone and camera. Running on autopilot.
I haven’t heard from Steven all day, but I text him a reminder anyway. He promised he’d be there, and he promised he’d help me tonight. The looming boxes have been waiting.
It’s time, I had told him last week. The baby things. The boxes full of them. The boys’ old clothes and things I bought the day of my test. All of them have been sitting at the end of our hall since January. It’s time.
Steven doesn’t get back to me all afternoon, and when we pull into the parking lot for the boys’ dojo, I call him. No answer.
“Is Daddy coming?” Sawyer asks from the backseat.
I stare at my phone, willing it to ring, for Steven to be on the other end. After a long moment, I turn it off and straighten my shoulders, holding my chin high. He’ll be here.
He wasn’t.
Both boys earned their yellow belt. Sawyer earned the kindness award, and Easton earned the most progress award. We celebrate with waffles, lingering at the diner just in case Steven shows up late.
He doesn’t.
We drive by the hospital and see his car still parked in its usual spot, the boys beg to go see him, and I have to be the one to break their hearts by saying no. It isn’t the first thing he’s missed. Last week, it was dinner. The week before, he missed t-ball practice.
Bedtime happens swiftly, and I’m grateful. But when I walk out of their room, the stack of boxes at the end of the hall feel like a punch straight through my chest. They stare at me. Glaring and excruciating.Waiting.
“I guess it’s just you and me,” I mutter.
Tears are rolling down my face before I reach them. My shaky breaths stack on top of one another. I heave the boxes up, sobs choking me along the way. The plastic is cold against my skin, cold in a way the things inside were never supposed to be.
At the bottom of the stairs, I lose my balance, and the boxes with it. They crash to the floor, and one bursts open. Tiny clothes spill out. An array of brown, blue, and green cotton scatters across the floor. I halt, grief stunning me to the spot.
A blood-curdling scream rips out of me. Violent and unrecognizable.Iam unrecognizable. Uncontrollable sobs rush out of me, and I have to cover my mouth so the boys don’t hear me. Panic, unbidden and unwelcome, rips through my limbs.I’m going to die.Everything inside me shakes, and any ounce of regulation I can usually muster is stripped away.
My vision tilts. My heart slams against my skull. I sink to the floor beside the boxes, gasping and suffocating. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to count and breathe and stay calm. Nothing works. The room blurs, and all I hear is the rapid thumping pressing against my temples. A flash of light cuts across my vision, then the front door opens.
“Emma?” Steven’s voice sounds like he’s underwater. “Emma, baby, what’s wrong?” His arms are around me, pulling me on top of his lap.
