I wave her off, clocking the pile of leaves one more time before I shut the door. The living room is spotless, with the Lego box sitting by the fireplace, sealed tight. The boys sit at the dining room table, already working on their homework, with a bowl of grapes and celery sitting between them.
“Where’s your dad?” I ask.
“He went upstairs,” Easton says without looking up, engrossed in his spelling.
Josie and I make our way up the steps, my eyes temporarily snagging on the two packed totes sitting on the counter. Upstairs, everything is gleaming spotless. The hallway runner’s vacuumed, the bathroom scrubbed, the boys’ duffel bags zipped and ready to go.
The sound of movement comes from the bedroom, and I call out, “Steven?”
He’s standing there with a phone pressed to his ear, folding laundry at record speed. Not just any laundry either—my laundry. Myunderwear.
I blink once. “What are you doing?”
“I’ll call you later.” He hangs up, setting down a pair of pink lace panties with delicate precision. Then he picks up the gray, embarrassingly unflattering pair I reserve for Sundays and folds those the exact same way. “How was your day?”
“Fine?” I sound unsure. “What is happening right now?”
“I’m folding laundry.” His focus is intense, like this is a life-or-death situation.
“I see that. But…why?
“Do I not fold your laundry?” He scoffs at himself.
“You do,” I say quickly. “But not…myunderwear.”
I snort and yank open the top drawer of our dresser, revealing the chaos within. Socks are tangled with underwear, a disarray of fabrics and coverage nearly busting at the seams. “I don’t even fold them.”
“Oh.” He blushes, rubbing the back of his neck. His shirt lifts just enough to show a sliver of tawny, smooth skin. When I finally look back up, he’s smiling at me, shy and a little amused. “Did you have a good day?”
“I did.” I grin, setting Josie on the pile of warm clothes. She squeals, delighted with a rogue sock. “How was yours?”
“Really good, I think. I liked getting to see you.”
That whoosh-in-your-chest feeling hits before I can stop it. “Yeah? Well…good. Great,” I stammer, heat flushing my neck. “What do you want to do for dinner?”
“I made a lasagna.”
“Oh.”
He continues, “Cleaned up a bit; hope that’s okay. I packed snacks, but you might need to check them. Got paper plates so we don’t have dishes tonight.” He says all of this while still folding laundry. “I packed our stuff and some of yours. All I need to do is get those leaves up, and we should be good to hit the road first thing.”
When the folding is finished, he immediately starts putting the clothes away, and it’s evident he’s unaware the effect this can have on a woman. As he’s finding the clothing’s rightful place, he keeps talking. Now about his sisters and their party plans, about helping his dad with the barn, and how he wants to buy his mom something for her birthday. His words come like he’s listing off his shopping list. Nonchalant. Matter-of-factly.
And I can’t stop smiling.
“What?” he asks, catching my look. “What’d I say?”
“N–nothing.” My voice cracks under the weight of it all. The joy, the hope, the dread…they all squeeze my throat. Because here he is. The man I fell in love with. The man who checked off lists effortlessly. The joy and hope that comes with having him here again. And the dread that he’s starting to remember, and the very real possibility that it could wipe this side of him away all over again.
I end up still needing to spend the evening packing. Young Steven didn’t know how many diapers and bottles we truly need for a four-month-old. When the kids are asleep and the car is finally loaded, I plop down on the couch. My eyes are strained from the day, but my Kindle calls to me from the coffee table.
Steven sits next to me, handing me a cup of peppermint tea and the Kindle without a word. He settles in, with two photo albums on his lap, and a book of brain teaser questions.
“Is that your homework?” I laugh.
“Just light reading.” He smiles back, but it falls flat, the blaring truth staring up at him. I can’t count how many times he’s gone through those photos. And it makes the selfish pit in my stomach burn with guilt. He deserves to remember, even if it means remembering the hard things too.
“Do you want help?”
