The contact sends heat skittering along my skin, sharp and unexpected. Every nerve seems to zero in on that one point of contact, like my body’s been waiting for it.
It’s not the first time it’s happened either. Every single time she’s touched me, my body reacts this way.
But this time, it’s even more pronounced.
Because this time, there’s no barrier. It’s skin against skin.
It’s probably because it’s been so long since I’ve felt anyone touch me.
Since Cora.
And even then, it never felt like this. Like something inside me is waking up, confused and unwelcome and very much alive.
“The only thing you need to do,” Rowan says softly, “is spend time with your kids.”
“Okay,” I respond because it’s the only thing I can manage right now, all my focus on the place where her skin meets mine.
“Okay,” she echoes, then lets go.
It takes my legs a second to remember how to move. Then I join my kids at the table in the breakfast nook, looking between Jemmy and Presley. I search my brain for something to say, but I draw a blank. These are my kids, for crying out loud. They have my DNA running through them. It shouldn’t be this hard.
And what makes it worse is that Rowan doesn’t seem to have this problem, even though she was a stranger to them yesterday. Yet she connects with them effortlessly while I feel like I’m fumbling through my own life.
“How was school?” I ask Presley, unsure what else to say.
She shrugs, her way of showing indifference.
She’s indifferent about most everything these days.
“Are you excited about your field trip next week?”
She grabs her notepad, writes something, and slides it toward me.
Do I have to go?
At least her handwriting has improved since she stopped talking.
Her therapist suggested teaching her sign language. I considered it. Even signed her up for classes. But Robert talked me out of it. Said it would only encourage her to remain silent.
I didn’t argue. I didn’t argue about much back then, too numb from grief. Now I’m not so sure it was the right call. If Cora were here, I’m pretty sure she’d tell her father to mind his own business and would do what’s in Presley’s best interests.
Rowan returns with plates, placing one in front of Presley and me. Presley’s chicken is cut into neat pieces, and she has carrots instead of salad. Jemmy has bite-sized portions, too, and to my surprise, he digs in immediately.
“If you don’t need anything else, I’m going to head to my room,” Rowan states. “Everything’s cleaned. You just need to load the dishwasher.”
“Why don’t you eat with us?” I suggest.
She lifts a container. “I packed mine to go. This is your family time.”
She kisses Jemmy’s head. “Thanks for playing with me today, bud.” Then she moves toward Presley, giving her a squeeze. “Want to help me cook again tomorrow?”
Presley nods eagerly, her entire expression lighting up, a stark contrast from moments ago when I attempted to strike up a conversation.
“You got it,” Rowan replies, then looks my way. “Good night, boss.”
“Good night,” I say as she turns and makes her way toward the in-law apartment.
When the sound of her footsteps fades and my kids turn their attention back to me, I know we’re all thinking the same thing.
