I swallow any response that might come and click my seatbelt. My words have not been helpful lately.
“Mom, it’s mine!” Sawyer screeches from his seat.
“No, it isn’t!” Easton fires back.
“Give it back!” Sawyer wails and accidentally kicks the back of Steven’s seat.
Steven flinches, then every part of him slowly tightens with frustration, the fabric of his blue scrubs bunching up around his biceps as he grips the steering wheel.
Another double kick lands, and he whirls around toward the backseat. “Boys!” he snaps. “Knock it off.” His tone slices through the air and stabs me in the chest. Everyone freezes.
I reach for Steven’s leg. “They’re tired.”
“Yeah,” he bites out. “So am I.”
My hand retreats, like touching a scalding pan. Shame prickles over my skin for reaching in the first place. I lace my fingers together in my lap as we back out of the driveway, try to keep my breath quiet and steady. Even that feels like too much.
The radio is off, which seems to add to the tension. The boys try to stay quiet, but they can’t resist bickering under their breath. Josie cries on and off, and Steven huffs at every red light. It’s miserable.
At another light, I study the side of his face. His usually dark, dewy skin is dulled. Fatigue tugs at his brown eyes, with heavy circles underneath that are practically permanent these days. His usually clean-shaven jaw is prickly as he traded shaving time for just a few more minutes of sleep this morning. I run a hand over my thigh, feeling my own prickles through the sheer hose fabric. Steven yawns, and one threatens to climb up my throat in return. I fight it, andthe urge to rub my eyes, knowing my exhaustion pales in comparison to his.
We’re both stretched thin. And we’ve gotten terrible at telling each other.
Another kick hits Steven’s seat, and he slams his hand against the steering wheel, startling all of us. “I said stop!” he shouts.
Instantly, Easton’s eyes are brimming with tears, but like me, he refuses to let them fall. Sawyer, on the other hand, explodes. Wearing his emotions on his sleeve, like his father, tears cascade down his cheeks.
“Great,” Steven grumbles. “I’m sorry.”
Guilt tangles with irritation in his eyes as he glances in the rearview. Sawyer sets his jaw, now refusing to look in Steven’s direction, as the tears keep streaming.
“Sawyer?” Steven’s tone softens, and his eyes are pleading, but Sawyer doesn’t budge. Frustration then floods Steven’s features, sending his nostrils flaring.
“Hey”—I turn to Sawyer—“it’s okay. Daddy didn’t mean to scare you. He’s just tired.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Steven cuts in.
“I’m just trying to help.”
“I can fix it, okay?”
I nod once and turn back toward the road. Dread knots itself in my chest, like I know what I’m approaching, and I can’t get away from it. I can’t run from the impending doom. My fingers twitch, and I squeeze them tighter together.
Silence envelopes us, nearly swallowing me whole.
When we pull into the school, but Steven bypasses the drop-off line and parks, a slew of unreadable emotions now etched on his face. Sawyer unbuckles slowly, eyes flicking between Steven, as he climbs out ofthe car, and me.
We all watch as he makes it to Sawyer’s side, waiting. When the boys finally climb out, Steven holds his hands out to Sawyer for a hug—a peace offering. He accepts tentatively at first then, like a light switch being turned on, embraces him eagerly. I see the tightness of Steven’s shoulders loosen and the wordsI’m sorryleave his mouth.
Then we head to the hospital, neither of us speaking, until we’re a block away and Steven says, “I’m doing my best, Emma.”
His tone feels accusatory, as if I don’t believe he is. I swallow hard, not knowing how my response can help right now. I know he’s trying. But when he gets defensive, my instinct is to retreat, because defensive Steven is hard to navigate.
“I didn’t say you weren’t,” I say quietly.
“You didn’t have to.” His tightened grip squeaks against the steering wheel. “I can see it.”
I gape at him. “See it? So you’re assuming what I’m thinking?”
