Us. “Well, that doesn’t suck.” I chuckle. “Today Steven is kind of nice, I guess.”
She laughs softly, but I don’t miss the faint line that deepens between her brows. There’s definitely more to me than she’s willing to share—at least right now. It’s a weird feeling knowing someone knows you more than you know yourself.
As we pull into the drive-thru, I notice Emma’s fingers tapping against the steering wheel. More of a nervous tic than the idle kind of waiting. Sharp and intentional, like she’s keeping count. I shift in my seat, trying to catch her eyes, but she turns to place the order before I can.
“One second, please.” She turns to face me and deadpans, “What does Steven of the past want today?”
I fight a smile at the sincerity of her tone and pretend to study the menu. Does she know she’s naturally funny?
“I’ll take the…grilled chicken sandwich.” My stomach growls in protest. I could kill for a double Whopper right now. I wonder if Whoppers are the same in this decade.
“Are you sure?” She peers at me.
“Yeah.” I shrug. “It sounds good.”
“Okay…” Her eyes are the last thing to leave my face as her head swivels to order. “Yes, hi, can I have two chicken nugget kids’ meals, onegrilled chickensandwich…”—she glances over her shoulder, sounding anything but convinced—“and a double cheese Whopper, please.”
I gawk at her as the cashier rattles off her order and total.
“What?” She smirks, pulling around the corner. “I’m eating for two still; cholesterol doesn’t count for me.”
“Pretty sure that’s false.”
“Well, you would know; you’re the doctor,” she jokes.
“Ouch,” I mutter, clutching my heart, mortally wounded. Joking with her feels natural. I like it.
I would want someone to make me laugh about my situation instead of dwelling in the heaviness of it all. And she knows this. Of course she does. But I still can’t wrap my head around all of it.
After picking up our order, we head into a suburb on the edge of the city. It’s close to the hospital, but the neighborhood doesn’t feel like what I remember of Emma. Then again, fragments of her are only just starting to surface. Nothing whole, but small impressions, flickering back like sparks catching flame. Moments I can start piecing together. Her long brown hair. The funky way she dressed. And her laugh.
Oh, her laugh. A sound so vivid it woke me up last night.
I startled awake around 3 a.m., the room clock glaring back at me. Emma was sound asleep in the recliner. I couldn’t remember the dream itself—the images vanished the moment my eyes opened—but I could stillhearit. I watched her steady breaths flow out of her as she slept, the laugh playing in my head on an endless loop until it finally clicked. Like a missing puzzle piece.
It washerlaugh. Fifteen years ago. The night we met.
I think we’d been talking about my family’s ranch. She couldn’t stop laughing when I told her I used to be a cowboy before deciding to become a doctor. I don’t know if she thought I was joking or if the idea of me in a hat was just that funny, but I remember the sound of it like it was yesterday. Which I guess technicallyto meit was?
It was loud and musical andalive. It sent a current through me so strong it left me enraptured. I remember thinking I’d never felt anything like it before, feeling genuinely confused by the reaction it sparked in me. My chest tightened so suddenly I half-wondered if I was having some kind of reaction to the homemadeale Liam had made.
But then she laughed again, this time about her childhood crush, Clint Eastwood, and it happened again. The same electric rush washed over me, skating across my skin and settling deep in my bones. That was when I knew it was a feeling I didn’t want to lose, the feeling of being with her, of hearing her laugh.
I didn’t want to lose her.
I never got a chance to tell her that night.
But now, sitting beside her as she pulls into the driveway,ourdriveway, I can’t help but hope I did eventually. That, somewhere in the years I can’t remember, I told her what that laugh did to me.
Surely I did. We are married, after all.
Surely I’m the kind of husband who says those things.
Right?
“We’re here,” Emma says weakly as she parks the car. She gazes at the house and whispers, “It’s not much.”
“It looks cozy.” I encourage and she rolls her eyes playfully, but I mean it.
