“I don’t think I’ve seen you smile this much in a long time,” I say, intrigued by it.
It falters as a mix of emotions flash across his face before he says, “Oh yeah? Am I grumpy?”
I laugh. “No. You’re just…” I chew on my lip, looking for the right word.
“Oh, come on.” He shoots me a playful look. “Just say it.”
“Focused.”
“And that’s bad?” He says it like he already knows my answer.
“Well…no?” I grimace at the obvious lie, and he eyes me. “Okay, it can be kind of bad. It’s like you get so focused it distracts you, if that makes sense.”
“I see.”
He nods once, pondering this, probably overthinking. I can sense him spiraling, dissecting what I mean, what might be wrong, how he can fix it. Steven has always lived by one belief: every problem has a solution, and he’s going to be the one to find it.
I think that’s where we’ve started to crack. Sure, my anxiety would love for every issue to be solved immediately, wrapped up tightly with a bow. But my anxiety is also very aware that there will always be problems, and sometimes the solution doesn’t actually change the outcome. Sometimes things hurt anyway.
“It’s not a bad thing,” I add quickly.
He purses his lips, struggling to believe me.
“It’s really not,” I insist. “It’s super helpful for your job, for the house. You get so focused and get things done like some superhuman, so then it’s a good kind of distracted. Last summer, you fixed our AC before it even needed fixing.”
“I don’t care about that,” he huffs.
His hands grip the steering wheel, hard, the tendons in his forearms straining as he guns it to make our exit. His jaw ticks, and I can feel the irritation roll off of him like heat.
I swallow, suddenly feeling a lot smaller than I did a second ago. “What did I say?”
The fragile confidence I’ve managed to hold on to can shatter so easily when it comes to Steven. One sign of disappointment from him, and the monster starts to stir in my chest. It feels almost pathetic how tightly the two are tied together.
His hand flies to my knee, giving it a slight squeeze. “You didn’t say anything, Em. It’s just…frustrating for me.” When I don’t respond, he adds, “I set high expectations for myself.”
I snort. That’s an understatement.
He gives me a weak smile. “It’s disappointing to see where I’m failing.”
“You’re not failing.”
He glances at the kids in the rearview, blinking back whatever emotion threatens to break through. “I am, Emma.” His voice cracks, dropping to a whisper. “I am.”
I lay my hand over his, tracing the rope of a vein along his forearm. His pulse is steady beneath my palm, but his grip still trembles.
“You set unrealistic expectations,” I try to joke.
He harrumphs.
I sigh, mildly frustrated. Not at him, but the situation. The timing, this moment. Of all the times I hoped Steven would come to this realization, itwas never in the car, with half of his memory wiped, on the way to see his family.
We only have three more hours of peace before we’re swallowed by the chaos of the Jones family. I love them, truly, but they can be a lot. And with everything going on with Steven’s memory and his mom, I find myself wanting something small and happy to hold onto first. Just a little pocket of joy to carry me through the weekend.
And I know Steven needs that too. But he won’t admit that. For some odd reason, if it were up to him, he’d let these feelings of inadequacy eat away at him.
“Can I be selfish?” I ask.
His lips twitch. “I have a hunch this is new territory for you.”
