I want to tell her. Tell her what, I’m not sure exactly. Maybe how lost I feel and I don’t know what to do, how desperate I am to find my way back. Maybe how I don’t know the words to say anymore or how to think, because I don’t fully know who I am anymore. But one truth is crystal clear: I want to be with her. I want my family. I want these cold days in the yard, with the soft light on her hair, to be mine forever.
Just as I muster the nerve to open the door, a horn blares beside me. Tamara’s bright-red minivan screeches to a halt, parked so close I’m surprised she didn’t take off my mirror. She and Jay pile out with their arms full, rounding up the kids from the yard and herding them inside.
Mom’s party is in a few hours. The annual birthday-feast-karaoke-extravaganza. A night I never would’ve missed before.
Emma waves at me before heading inside, her eyes lingering, questions written all over her face.
I tell myself I can still do something normal. I can be helpful. Even if my brain feels like someone carved out half of it, surely I can manage a simple task. So I push out of the truck and head straight inside for the pantry, pulling out bananas and peanut butter. Snacks for kids are always helpful.
The house is loud around me. Normal for everyone but me. My sisters shout orders down the hall, kids stomp overhead, and Emma’s soft voicedrifts from the living room as she soothes Josie. I focus on my peeling and slicing.
Emma steps beside me a moment later. “Are you hungry?”
“N–no. I just thought I could help.”
She hums, eyeing the bananas like they could bite us.
“What’d I do?” I snap unintentionally.
She winces, and I take a breath, feeling out of my wits lately. It’s like I can’t control whatever spews out of me lately. Surely, I handled my emotions better before. Surely, I had some kind of filter. Maybe it’s all a part of the process. I have to reteach myself these things.
Emma clears her throat and rests a hand on mine. “Nothing. You did nothing wrong.”
But itfeelslike I did. It feels like everyone’s tiptoeing around me like I’m a bomb wired wrong. I feel like a child—an irrational feeling, yes, but it’s there. Easton skids past the counter, smoothing down his hair and tightening his tie, when his eyes snag on the plate of sliced fruit.
“Dad…” His face and voice twist. “I hate bananas.”
Emma gives me a knowing, yet equally apologetic, smile before grabbing an apple from the fridge.
“Don’t worry,” she tells him softly. “He was going to cut this for you.”
Easton hums and narrows his eyes, probably ignoring the fact that I don’t remember everything right now, replacing it with the expectation thatI should know better.Hell, he probably thinks all kids hate bananas and I should know that too.
I take the apple and start slicing. Aggressively.
“Please be careful,” Emma murmurs, her hand brushing my forearm.
My jaw tightens as hot air builds in my chest and blows out of my nose like steam. She shifts on her feet, and it sends tension rippling up my neck. I slice harder and faster, shoving the pieces to the side. Her hand drops from my arm so quickly you’d think I burned her. From the corner of my eye, Isee her press a hand to her chest, rubbing at whatever emotion is swirling in there as she disappears down the hall.
I’m not careful. I slice four apples—none of which get eaten—and nick the tip of my thumb. Emma clocks the Band-Aid on my finger, and her nostrils flare, but she stays quiet.
We get ready for the party in silence. Not a word. Not even a glance that lingers too long or it could be mistaken as affection. Is this how we are? Did I let my marriage get to a place where we orbit each other like strangers when things get tense?
The question rattles me all the way to the venue.
It’s a different one than I remember—new, according to India. With the growing family, having the party at the ranch isn’t feasible anymore. So a fancy event center with a fancy wait staff it is. Everyone moves around the ballroom with ease, with music humming, lights shifting, laughter spilling across the room. It should feel good being here, surrounded by family, celebrating. It doesn’t.
A table of photos pulls me in, my mother’s life laid out in snapshots. I find myself obsessing over them, staring at one of Mom hugging Emma and me at Christmas. We’re all happy. It’s a moment I lived and can’t remember. Another moment stolen.
“Quit being a hermit and help,” Jay mutters, handing Josie to me.
She squirms in my arms, desperate to get away. I can’t even blame her. I’m not fun right now. Everything I can’t remember is nagging me, distracting me, festering so deep it’s probably giving me an ulcer. Not knowing anything is going to kill me. I stand there, staring at the table for far too long. Josie tries to wriggle free, and Emma sweeps her out of my arms quietly, without a single question.
Sawyer tugs on my pant leg, motioning me to sit with him. I follow him like a mindless zombie, my mind still clinging to the photo. A moment in time so lost that it sends a shard of fear spearing through mychest.
What if I never remember?
Suddenly, the room gets hotter. My shirt collar squeezes against my throat. We watch as toasts are made, and applause fills the room, and the sound bounds in my ears long after it’s over. Dad gives a final toast then signals the DJ, and the Bee Gees start to croon overhead.
