I arch a brow in silent question.Muddy dwellers?
He shrugs as his eyes twinkle with delight. He doesn’t know either, but he’s committed.
“One day, the knight decided he would travel to a faraway place called Wisconsin.”
I snort out a laugh as he launches further into the epic tale. His voice is dramatic, telling of the fearless knight battling his sworn enemy, defeating the king of the giants, scaling the towering cliffs of cheese to rescue the princess. His glee is palpable as his story comes to its epic conclusion, and by the end, the boys’ gentle snores fill the room, and my eyes can barely stay open.
I hear the soft click of the lamp being switched off, and then Steven’s arms are sliding around me. His hands move gently, instinctively, pulling me in. He scoops me up like I weigh nothing and guides my legs around his waist. I rest my check against the warm hollow of his shoulder as my hair spills messily across both of us.
The house is dark and cool as I listen to his feet pad against the slippery hardwood as he slips us into our bedroom. The curtains stir in the breeze coming through the open window, and the soft glow from the hallway dies behind us.
He lays me down in our bed, hovering over me with heavy eyes. Exhaustion settles over us like a current. I know what he wants, what he needs. I need it too. Not just the touch or closenessof our skin, but something deeper. The tether that has held us together since the beginning…we need it back. To feel like there’s still anusin the middle of this chaos. But the busyness of our world makes it feel impossible to get. Even in this bed, with him right here with me, he feels so far away. And the space between us stretches wider each day.
As if he’s heard the ache in my bones, he presses his lips to my neck and whispers, “I promise we’ll get back to us one day.”
That’s all it takes.
I fold into him, and something inside me comes undone. I break, quietly at first, then all at once. Messy tears come fast, and somewhere in the sobs, there are kisses. Soft and tender ones. And then promises, big ones and small, apologies tangled in our breaths for how distant we’ve become. Everything we’ve been too tired or scared to speak. Words we’ve lost in the noise of parenthood and responsibility finally rise to the surface until finally we get lost in the quiet reverence of each other.
Chapter ten
Steven
Thecarridehomeis unbearably quiet. And when I don’t summon the courage to speak up before we’re pulling into the drive, Emma reaches for my knee and gives it a squeeze. A silent attempt at peace before we’re around the kids.
We’re quickly swallowed by the bedtime chaos, separated by tiny, overly energetic bodies. She has to nurse Josie while I wrangle the twins in the bath. I don’t even have time to take my shoes off before the boys ping-pong their way down the hall and turn on the tub.
“Thank you, Cindy!” I hear Emma call out as she disappears into Josie’s room.
“You’re welcome, Ms. Jones. See you tomorrow!” Our nanny waves over her shoulder and locks the front door on her way out.
The bathroom floor is already covered in a layer of water when I walk in, biting it the moment my Birkenstock hits the tile. Suddenly, gravity isn’t my friend, and my legs slide out from under me, and I hit the floor. The boys erupt in laughter, no concern whatsoever, as I moan at the pain from impact.
“Be careful down there, Dad.” Easton cackles.
“Do we need to call adoctor?” Sawyer jokes, like he hasn’t used that one on me a million times already.
They howl, pointing at me and splashing the water like it’s the pinnacle of comedy to watch their forty-year-old dad roll around like a flipped-over turtle.
“Alright, alright,” I say when I make it to an upright position. My back burns all along the vertebrae of my spine as I collapse against the wall.
They suds up, splash me, splash each other, battle with monster trucks, and try scrubbing only their elbows when Easton announces, “I think that’s enough for tonight. Now we sleep!”
Climbing out of the tub is comical as they, too, slip on the tile, nearly greeting the floor with their face. But because I’m the adult, and laughing at my children is frowned upon, I advise them to be careful as we make our way down the hall.
Everything happens in a blur, the routine has become second nature, and honestly, I’m lucky the boys are who they are—agreeable, helpful, eager to please. It makes bedtime very smooth.
My biggest contribution is story time.
Before having kids, I never pictured myself being the guy to tell stories. I always enjoyed listening to Emma read out loud, attempting accents and sound effects as she’d read her fantasy books. But one night, it just fell on me, and I ran with it full force, weaving obscure tales about cheese cities and gremlin kings. Story time quickly became my thing.
Tonight, however, feels different. My eyes glaze over the pictures inDragons Love Tacos, and by the time I reach the final page, my voice is monotone.
“The end.” I close the book.
I glance to Sawyer’s bed on my right where he’s already fallen asleep. Easton, on the other hand, is lying there awake, his big brown eyes glaring at me.
“What’s up, bud?” I ask, tucking him in.
