He shakes out his shoulders and nods, satisfied with the shattered glass vase, then he says, “I hate when you run from our problems.”
It’s barely a whisper, but his eyes are locked on me, checking in.
I nod, accepting this. “I’m sorry.” I quietly tap the mallet against the table. “I hate that you want to fix them.”
He snorts at this, and so do I.
“I think some problems need time and space,” I offer.
He mulls this over, his pink lips twisting as he slowly comes to terms with the words. Then he gently taps the table. “I hate that you’re right.”
“I don’t hate that.” I smile.
Setting his bat down, he rounds the table and reaches for me. He slides the mallet from my hands and laces his fingers with mine.
“I hate…” he breathes, pulling me closer. “That you’re such a good mom.”
I bark out a laugh. “I’m sorry?”
He laughs too, then drops his head. “It makes me feel inadequate, like I may never catch up.”
“You will.” I say it without thinking, because I believe it. Even if he never remembers, he’s Steven,mySteven…he’ll catch up.
My chest aches at his words, though, at the frailness that clings to them. His fears, his worries, the possibility of never getting the years back. It all looms over him like a thick, suffocating fog. I cup his face, rubbing the wetness away from underneath his eye. He leans into my palm, and I feel the fog thin as he smiles.
“And I hate your lasagna.” He winces, as if confessing a mortal sin.
I gasp dramatically. “I hate your cold brew.”
“I make cold brew?” he asks.
“You try,” I encourage. “I hate that things get hard.” The words come out small, embarrassed. Life is hard. Marriage and loving someone is hard. I need to accept this.Nothing worth having comes easy.
“Me too,” he whispers, cupping my face. “But I want the hard. If that’s what it takesto have you, I want all of it.”
“Me too.”
His lips meet mine, soft and reverent, and I melt into him like butter on a hot pan.
A rapid fire of knocks rattle the door, then it swings open. Sawyer and Easton burst in, bypassing us completely as they head for the wall of tools and goggles. Ellie and Benny follow them in, Benny holding Josie.
“They couldn’t wait.” Ellie shrugs apologetically.
The boys are already smashing clay before we can step out of their way. Benny hands Josie to Steven, and she immediately reaches for his mouth. He winces then laughs softly, shifting her so she can’t grab him, holding her with such careful ease it pangs me in the ribs.
“Who’s paying me for this?” Malcolm calls from the hallway as he and Kate walk in carrying pizzas.
“I thought we were bringing our own?” Daniels says, trailing behind with a brown sack lunch. Mackenzie is close on his heels.
All at once, it’s chaos. Pizza boxes everywhere. No plates, no napkins, clay dust floating through the air like glitter. The room dissolves into joyful disorder, the kind that would normally have me spiraling, needing to take control. Instead, I just watch, soaking it all in. I let myself feel everything.
Steven slips an arm around my waist, bouncing Josie on his hip. He watches the mess the way I do, like he’s afraid it might disappear if he blinks. I can almost hear his silent prayer:God, please let me keep this memory. Please don’t take this one away.
Once our bellies are full and the floor is a ruin of clay and crumbs, Benny leans back and asks, “Now what, boss?”
I shrug, leaning into Steven, strangely glad not to have an answer for once. “I don’t know.”
“I think…” He turns me to face him, lifting my chin. “I’m going to take my wife home now.”
