I can’t help but laugh. “Not lately, but yeah. Sometimes you have to.”
“Did I…I don’t know…do it as much?”
I eye him, amused. “Do what?”
He chuckles at himself, self-deprecating and adorable. “Did I sleep on the floor as much as you? Was it an even split?”
It might be the look of innocence peeking through his tired eyes, but this feels like another moment where I can’t bring myself to tell him the truth. He looks like a puppy dog, desperate to be told he’s a good boy, and something in me wants to give him that.
But I can’t lie to him. Amnesia or not, he’s a person who deserves honesty.
A reluctant sigh rumbles in my chest, and his eyes flare, preparing himself for the worst. I haven’t noticed it in a long time, but there was always something so magnetic about the way his face holds emotion. The richness of his skin, alive with every feeling he lets surface, makes it impossible to look away.
“Not even,” I finally say. He nearly deflates but I quickly add, “but you helped more than most would.”
Relief floods him, subtle but very real. He must be keeping score with himself. Knowing Steven, he probably has a mental checklist of what makesa good father, and he’s slowly marking it off. I can’t imagine how disorienting it is not knowing who you are, especially what kind of parent or spouse you’ve become. And though he hasn’t asked me outright, I can feel his need to know.What kind of man is Steven Jones now?
“You know you can ask me,” I say, taking a sip of coffee.
“Ask you what?”
“Anything you want, really.” I try to sound confident, because I do want him to ask me anything. I want him to feel safe. Butanythingcould be just that—anything. And what if he doesn’t like my answer? What if it affects his neuropathways or whatever Liam said? The thought makes me queasy.
A caramel-tinged aroma swirls around me, bold and invigorating, bolstering my nerve. “But more specifically…you can ask me if you’re a good dad.”
His eyes jump to mine, wide and desperate, aching to know. But he doesn’t ask, like he’s too scared to know the answer or something. I give him a moment, but the question never comes, so I give him a tentative smile and pull out the milk and cereal.
“May I?” he asks, circling the island to join me at the pantry. “I wasn’t sure what they ate…didn’t want to get it wrong.” He chuckles at himself, embarrassed.
“They’re seven-year-old boys,” I tease, handing him the Froot Loops. “Anything sweet is a safe bet.” I pull the eggs out at the same time.
He smiles, filling both bowls before turning the stove on and cracking eggs. He moves around the kitchen like it’s second nature—finding the silverware, grabbing the cooking spray—every motion smooth and deliberate. His arms bend and muscles flex as he stirs, whips, and pours. The veins roping around in his forearms, the same ones that have made my knees buckle for years, do their job with pulsing fervor. I sink onto abarstool and watch him work.
“Does this feel familiar?” I ask, hope threading itself through the walls of my heart.
As nice as it is to have some respite from our fragile marriage, I need his memory back. The boys need their dad back. And watching him move around the kitchen like no time has passed makes me wonder if the memories are right there, waiting to resurface.
“Cooking?” he teases, glancing over his shoulder. The eggs sizzle, releasing a soft hiss and a warm, buttery steam that curls around him.
I roll my eyes. “Being in this kitchen.”
He doesn’t turn, but the smile in his voice is unmistakable. “Kind of.”
He deposits the eggs on four separate plates, and we move toward the table just as footsteps thunder overhead. Then loud chatter and the slamming of the bathroom door comes, which means the boys will be downstairs in sixty seconds or less. If I’m going to ask, it has to be now.
“How was yesterday with Liam?”
Steven and he were together for six hours yesterday. I’ve been desperate, dying a slow, aching death, waiting for information. For signs that we aren’t permanently lost in his mind. That the life we built still exists somewhere inside him. But I can’t stomach talking about it in front of the boys. Their footsteps grow louder, and my eyes flick to the stairs.
“It was really good,” he whispers, catching on as his eyes dart to the stairs. “Some things came back. He’s pretty optimistic.”
Relief crashes over me, and a small nugget of gratitude for Liam nestles itself in my chest as I breathe, “Thank God.”
The boys barrel down the steps, tripping over themselves in their race to the table. They fight for the chair next to Steven, and Easton wins. I slip out of my seat on the other side of him without protest, and Sawyer happily takes it.
“We’ll talk more later,” Steven reassures me.
I disappear upstairs to get ready before Josie wakes up. My efforts are in vain as she wakes up the moment I twist the shower knob.
