And something tells me that is exactly what Emma is like.
“Are you okay?” she asks me once we’ve migrated to the couch. The boys carry in the two-foot-tall half-built Lego truck and set it in the center of the living room. They lose a few pieces in the transition and scramble to fasten them back on before dumping the rest on the ground to assemble further.
“This’ll keep them busy for hours. You ready for that?” Benny sounds like he’s joking, but his eyes carry a warning, abrace yourselfkind of look. I glance at the boys, completely absorbed in the tiny red squares, tongues sticking out in concentration. I expect the warning to sink in, to fill me with dread. But it doesn’t.
“I’m good.” I give him a smirk. He takes this as his reprieve from babysitting, pats me on the back, and disappears into the kitchen.
“Can I get you anything?” Emma asks me, but her eyes are on the Legos, lasered in. Easton keeps snapping the wrong piece on the wheel, preventing it from rotating fully. I see her press her thumbs together in her lap, the vein of her slender forearm pulsing under the pressure.
“This is killing you, isn’t it?”
“I’m dying inside. He’s tried that piece four times already.”
I snort. “Do we do this together?”
“Mommy’s not allowed,” Sawyer says, clipping a piece to the ladder.
Emma’s nostrils flare, and I bite back a smile. “Oh, really? Why is that?” I ask them, but my eyes are glued to the smooth line of Emma’s jaw and the tick that comes when Easton says, “She takes it too seriously.”
I bark out a laugh, and Sawyer beams at the sound. Easton doesn’t lose focus.
“I’m not the only one,” Emma grumbles, staring at Easton’s hands as he fumbles with the same piece. “I was banned when they built the garden. Apparently, building from the ground up isnothow it’s supposed to go.”
I snort again. Her jaw clenches again when Easton finally abandons the piece and resorts to helping with the ladder. I squeeze her knee playfully, and weboth freeze. Her eyes stay forward, not acknowledging the contact. Touching your partner should come easy, and maybe subconsciously it is for me. Maybe the memories are still there, loading. But even if it comes naturally, it still feels foreign to me. I barely know Emma, so it makes sense that I would freeze when this happens. But why is she?
That’s when I realize something about all the touches since I woke up. They’ve all been initiated by me. Any contact from her has been guarded and hesitant. Cautious. Is it because she doesn’t want to overwhelm me? Or is it something else?
I want to ask. I could tell in the car that there are things she’s not telling me. When I asked if we were happy, I thought it would be met with something more than a curt nod. But what I can tell of Emma…she doesn’t get into the weeds when she’s not ready. And she doesn’t seem like someone who would open up around her kids.Ourkids.
I remove my hand, my thumb grazing the seam of her pants before returning to my lap.
“Could we, um…talk later?” I ask her.
She blinks at me, but before she can ask what for or refuse, or whatever she plans to do, we’re interrupted by a small yawn.
A tiny yawn.
My head swivels to the right, and there, at the foot of the stairs, is Ellie, holding a baby. Josie. My baby girl.
Chapter nineteen
Steven
When We Found Time
“Andthecoupleofthe evening, ladies and gentlemen…”
The DJ’s voice billows through the speakers, cutting through the lively hum of conversation. “Mr. and Mrs. Tom Jones!”
Mom and Dad glide into the ballroom, and the crowd erupts. They’re both glowing with joy, dressed in crisp white, as they float to the center of the dance floor. Emma whoops beside me as Sawyer wiggles excitedly on her hip. Easton is perched on my shoulders, clapping with wild abandon. I cup my hands around my mouth and holler, shooting Dad a thumbs-up as he pulls Mom close.
The lights in the room are soft and ethereal, with incandescent bulbs strung overhead speckling the floor. Every shimmer feels like it belongs to them. Sinatra croons through the speakers, and the crowd falls into a hush. We watch as my parents sway together, timeless and easy, as if fifty years haven’t passed since their first dance.
Emma leans into me, her hip pressing against mine as we move in rhythm to the music. I slip an arm around her waist and hug her tight.
“They’re so perfect together,” she says, full of awe. Her eyes gleam a glassy green beneath the light as she watches them. I follow her gaze to Dad’s hand resting protectively on Mom’s back, the way his face hovers close to her ear, murmuring words only for her as he leads them through the steps.
“They really are.” My throat feels thick as I watch them, confident he’s reminding her why they’re here and what they’re celebrating. I can see it in her eyes, the question,Why are we dancing in front of all these people?
