“Right.” He gestures to his head. “I just mean, is our life…” He struggles to find the words. “Is it hard? Husband getting attacked aside and all, do you have a lot to worry about?”
A self-deprecating laugh slides out of me, and as much as I want to tell him the truth—that he has a wife with horrible postpartum and even worse generalized anxiety—now is not the time.
“I have a normal amount for our situation,” I say, which isn’t a lie. If we look at the statistics, I am considered a normal level of anxious with my diagnosis—at least according to Ellie, anyway.
Steven must accept this answer as sufficient, or he doesn’t want to press too hard, because he nods and lets his eyes flutter closed.
“Are you tired?” I ask, reaching to touch his cheek, but I hesitate. How would he feel if I touched him?
He opens one eye and sees my hand, still hovering near his cheek,and I retreat.
“Sorry. I didn’t know if you’d want me…” I let what he just witnessed speak for itself and stop talking. Embarrassment heats my cheeks.
“I do.” He says it like it surprises even himself. “I do want you to.”
I smile, letting my hand settle where the curve of his jaw meets his neck. The long line of muscle tenses and stretches as he rests his head back against the pillow.
“Are you tired?” I ask again, brushing my thumb around the edge of his bruised cheek. The purple tint of his skin covers half of it, nearly blending in with his familiar dark circles. His exhaustion, him running himself into the ground, forus,got him here.
“My head just hurts a little.”
“And you’re smiling about that?” I arch a brow at the smile now pulling at his lips.
“No.” He laughs. “I’m just happy, I guess.”
“What an odd time to be happy,” I say as he sinks deeper into the pillows, his hand still firmly gripping my knee. “Maybe it’s the brain damage.” I immediately choke out a gasp at my words, the insensitivity rolling over me like hot acid. “Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry. That was…ugh.” I cover my face, and he laughs again.
“Or maybe it’s the company making me happy.”
Groaning into my hands, I disagree with him. The bed moves and sheets rustle before his hands are encircling my wrists as he uncovers my now beet-red face.
“Hey, don’t worry, it was funny.” His smile is genuine as his hands move to clasp mine in his lap. “Are you the funny one in our relationship?”
I snort out a laugh. “The kids don’t think so.”
He stills at this, and his hands go lax.
“Sorry.”
Tense, unnerving silence stretches between us before he finally asks, “When can I see them?”
I hadn’t thought about this. Not that I don’t want the kids to see their dad, but I hadn’t even thought about how to tell them—or if I was even going to tell them.
“I, uh…I don’t know.”
Before we can get into the weeds about the kids, my phone starts ringing across the room. I jump to grab it, already bracing myself for Ellie panicking over something Josie-related or Benny calling to say the boys got into another fight at jiu jitsu. But it’s neither.
I hesitate when I see my screen then show it to Steven. His eyes widen when he sees that it’s his dad is calling.
I rarely miss a call from his dad. Not out of obligation, but because talking to him is always heartwarming and leaves me feeling more peace than before. I think that’s why I answer without checking with Steven first.
“Hey, Tom,” I answer, shrugging at Steven, who mouthswhat are you doing?“How’s it going?”
“Emma…” Tom Jones, my father-in-law, grunts on the other line. “Tell me what’s going on.”
I gnaw on my lip, unsure what all he might know. The only people I’ve told are Ellie and Liam. The latter, unfortunately, because he wouldn’t stop calling. And knowing my luck, both of them would feel obligated to call Steven’s parents.
“What’s going on?” I repeat, looking to Steven as if he could help guide this entire situation. He shrugs at me, and as if the bruise on his forehead is enough to knock some sense into me, I realize I have to handle this without him.
