Steven waves it off, completely unbothered by Malcolm’s comments. Knowing him, he’s already read Malcolm and decided he’s harmless. The way he’s sunk deep into his pile of pillows only proves it; Steven’s guard is down because he knows there’s no threat here.
“Alright, well, you can go now.” I hug them both and guide them out.
For a long moment when it’s finally just us, I say nothing. Steven says nothing. We just stare at each other, his eyes tripping over me a third time.
“Why do you keep doing that?” I finally ask.
His eyes snap to mine, embarrassed. “Doing what?”
“That.” I wave vaguely in his direction. “You keep giving me that look. Do you…not like this outfit?”
It’s meant as a joke, a way to cut through the tension, but the words land heavier than I expect. Suddenly, I’m hyperaware that maybe he really doesn’t like it, and my arms wrap around my waist before I can stop myself.
“I like it.The blue is really pretty.” He points to my top, half untucked from my skirt and definitely flecked with breastmilk.
“You’re really pretty.” A self-conscious laugh escapes him. “Wow. Did I really just say that?”
I laugh. “You did. And thank you.” I shift on my feet, suddenly aware of every inch of him, of how, even though I’m fifteen years older than what he remembers, he sees me as pretty, maybe even desirable. But there are so many other parts of me now that aren’t as pretty. I’m not the same girl he remembers.
“Do I tell you that?” he asks, voice low.
“That I’m pretty?” I ask, and he nods.
“Sometimes.” My chest warms at the memory of all the times he whispered those words. It tugs a smile to my lips, but it falters quickly as reality sinks in. “Not as often as you used to, though.”
His face falls, sadness pooling in the soft lines I’ve never noticed on him before. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.
“Hey, hey.” I slide onto the bed, the urge to comfort him as instinctive as breathing. “You don’t need to apologize for things Present Steven did.” He arches a brow, and we both laugh at how ridiculous it sounds. But sitting here with thisYoungerSteven, this confused and breathtakingly familiar version, I know I can’t hold him to the same standards as the man I’ve known. I can’t punish him for what we’re going through right now.
Something twists in my gut as Steven reaches for my hand, weaving his fingers through mine. The touch feels almost foreign—like everything about this situation. It’s so youthful, so innocent, holding someone’s hand. Present-day Steven and I touch, of course. But I can’t remember the last time we held hands like this, the way you do with a first boyfriend or a longtime crush, fingers clasped tight, a silent promise of togetherness. Something in me sings at the contact. I’ve missed this. I’ve missed him.
He brushes his thumb over my knuckles, and the heat in his touch sends a thrill through me. “Can I ask something?” His eyes search mine urgently.
“Of course.”
“Are we happy?”
Chapterseventeen
Steven
When We Were Having Fun
“No,youdon’tunderstand.Colin Firth is the best.” Jay slaps her hands on the table hard enough to rattle our drinks.
“He is not!” Emma fires back, laughing into her soda water.
“I’m with her on this. You’re wrong, Jay!” Shayna wraps an arm around my wife and squeezes her tight. “And Emma is never wrong. Right, Steven?”
I press my lips together, eyes wide. That single pause earns me a chorus of gasps before straw wrappers are launched at my head.
“How dare you!” Shayna accuses, shoving my arm.
“I didn’t say anything!”
“Your eyes said it all!” Tamara declares, pegging me with a balled-up napkin.
“I’m just saying, no one can be rightallthe time.” My defense is weak at best, especially when Emma glances at me with that smile. The one that undoes me every time. She’s right in all the ways that count and then some.
