“They look good together,” Steven says, smiling.
“They do.”
“Everyone seems really happy.” He swallows, and I hum in response. “I hope I’m not ruining any of that.”
My head snaps toward him, startled by such a thought. Has he been thinking this the entire time? Have I given him any reason to?
“Why would you think that?”
He blushes, dropping his gaze to his ring finger, the gold shining brilliantly against his tawny skin.
“What aren’t you telling me?” I shift to face him, jerking the swing backwardin the process.
He plops his chin in his hand, leaning to face me, but doesn’t answer right away. His eyes scan my face, settling on spots I’m too familiar with—the scar above my eyebrow, the wrinkles around my lips, the dark circles that have taken up permanent residence under my eyes. Signs of an aged and worn-down Emma mere inches from him.
“You’re beautiful.”
I choke out a laugh, but his eyes twinkle, never wavering from my face. Steven has said these words to me before; they’re not new. But this time, it knocks the wind out of me. It feels different. Sincere. Revelatory, even.
“That’s what you aren’t telling me?”
“No.” He chuckles, rubbing at the stubble speckling his jaw. “That’s not it. I just wanted to say it.”
“Well…” I clear my throat, shoving the abrupt sensation to kiss him back down the pipeline. I don’t even know how to approach those kinds of feelings right now. “Thank you,” I say hoarsely. “Now back to this ‘ruining everyone’s happiness’ thing.”
He laughs again. It’s deep, hearty, and infectious, and I can’t help grinning from ear to ear. It hits me that these last few days are the most I’ve heard him laugh in nearly a year. The sound is like a spark to my nervous system, attempting to jolt it back to life.
“I just…” He sighs, squeezing his eyes shut. “I hope I’m not imposing. I feel like a stranger, and there are too many lives involved in this.” He gestures lightly toward the yard where the boys are now playing tag with Benny. “For me to just insert myself and muddle things up.”
“You’re notmuddling things up,” I say, air-quoting him. “It would be worse for them if you weren’t around at all.”
“What about you?” His eyes are earnest as they lock onto mine. They’re so focused it makes me fidget. He waits, and the air around me stills, turning muggy as sweat builds on my neck.Please don’t ask me.
“Would it be better for you if I wasn’t around?”
There’s something in his voice that makes my stomach twist. Not just the question itself, but the tone. Maybe he’s picking up on the things I haven’t shared yet. The therapy, the distance, the years-long unspooling of us. Everything I’m terrified to reveal for fear that it could hinder his recovery.
Or worse…make those things real again. Because, selfishly, I’m clinging to the amnesia like a hiding place, a shelter from the wreckage we’ve both been pretending isn’t there.
My palms go clammy as a familiar monster prickles at my fingertips. I rub my hands together aggressively, as if this can ward it off. My anxiety comes in two forms. One is triggered by fear, worry, and sheer overstimulation. And the other is triggered…by Steven.
Anxiety about disagreeing with him, upsetting him,losinghim. It all piles up into something huge and shapeless, a monster-thing that only he seems capable of soothing. Admittedly, I’ve thought that maybe the only way to truly rid myself of it is to leave him.
But I can’t. I don’t want to.
Then I find myself stuck in this tangle of confliction, fleeing from the feelings, taking medication, hoping for some small pocket of peace.
Maybe itwouldbe better for me if he weren’t around. If I didn’t have to juggle these emotions or walk on eggshells because of his bruised brain. But I couldn’t do that to him or the kids. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want him around more often than not.
Because when he looks at me like this, like he did fifteen years ago, I can’t help but savor it. The euphoria I experience of being fully seen by him again is enough to send me to the moon. And when his memorydoescome back, I know I’d regret not holding on to these moments while I can.
“No,” I finally say. “It would suck if you weren’t around.”
His whole face breaks into a smile. Bright, boyish, devastating. “Good.”
This must be the key to releasing his tension, because suddenly his arm softens, falling around my shoulders. His fingers trace the line of my sweater, each pass reverberating through me with a fiery tenderness. My own tension slowly unspools, and as we sit there, watching our kids run wild in the yard, I finally let myself breathe.
Chapter twenty-one
