His eyes are on me now, and I can tell that part is for me more than anyone. Tom knows about Liam. He knows about my anxiety, about the exhaustion that comes with raising four-year-old twins. And he, of all people, knows how distant Steven has been lately. Working extra shifts, forgetting to call, nearly missing Thanksgiving altogether. He’s been distracted, and we’re all suffering for it. And maybe Tom’s just as disappointed as I am.
“Whatever this is,” he says, waving a hand between us, “I need you both to let it go. You love each other. Don’t forget that.”
His throat bobs as he sniffs. “And be damn grateful you still remember it. I’d give anything to have that back.”
Silence settles over us, heavy and shameful, as he turns and walks toward the nurses’ station. I stare at the floor, heat rising in my cheeks, unsure if I want to collapse or run.
For a long moment, neither of us says anything. The sounds of monitors and distant voices drift from the end of the hall. Tom’s words hang in the air long after he’s gone, as persistent as the hum of the fluorescent lights above us.
“Em—”
“I can’t keep doing this, Steven,” I whisper, the words a knife to my throat, painful and shocking.
“Wh—what do you mean?” His voice shakes, weaker than I’ve ever heard.
“I can’t keep pretending things are fine when clearly they’re not.”
“We’re just going through a rough patch. It will get better.”
“Really? When?”
He opens his mouth, but I stop him. Nothing he can say will help right now. “Go be with your mom.”
I turn toward the window at the end of the hall overlooking the city, night lights bleeding through the glass in blues and golds. Our reflections stare back at me. Two tired, depleted people, with no traces of happiness anywhere.
Without saying anything else, I hand Steven his phone and head for the elevator. The sight of him being left behind breaks my heart, knowing I’m the one breaking it. The doors slide shut, leaving me alone with the echo of Tom’s words.
Be damn grateful you still remember it.
I think it’s safe to say we’ve already started forgetting.
Chapter twenty-six
Emma
Youneverforgetyourfirsts.
Isn’t that what they say? Your first kiss, first failure, your first love. Some are integral to who you are as a person, and some are just plain weird. I remember my first diaper experience. Sawyer, at two in the morning, changing him with no wipes within arm’s reach. A first I can’t forget. No matter how hard I’ve tried.
But my first day as an art teacher? I can’t remember it. Not fully, anyway. And that vacant memory nearly distracts me from helping Mackenzie settle in.
“What’s in here?” she asks, opening the back closet in the art room.
“Extra supplies.” I shake my head, trying to focus against the fog lingering. “Safety equipment, basic stuff.”
“Safety equipment?” She peers into the closet cautiously. “What for?”
“The students are really into creative freedom around here,” I say, smiling. “Just as a precaution.”
She follows my gaze to the corner stacked with hammers, mallets, and chisels, her eyes widening at the sheer number of options. Her résumé said she was proficient in paint and sketch work, so I’m guessing this kind of mixed media is new territory for her.
“That’s…a lot.”
“It can be,” I say. “But this is your class for now. Use whatever feels right, and don’t worry about the rest.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Jones.”
I can’t fight the smile as I hear my name and the echo of Steven saying it last night. Heat builds low in my belly, moving down my legs and threatening to distract me even more.
