I just stand here, watching him walk until the shadows swallow him. Seconds pass, but I stand still, in place, mentally tracking the path he's walking, until he gets close enough for the barn's light to shine on him again.
The creak of that heavy door is so loud, I can hear it from here.
The night so quiet and still, I almost convince myself I can hear him murmuring to the horses once he's inside.
It's crazy, of course. Hearing him would be impossible from this distance. But the familiar deep rumble of his voice still rasps hushed affections to Kimber inside my mind, stopping to pat her neck the way he does every time he walks by her stall.
The thought alone makes me smile. How did I ever miss how kindness just pours out of this man? How underneath all his cocky attitude and endless quips, he hides this quiet strength and steadfast presence I've not only been oblivious to but have taken entirely for granted.
It was easy to accept how wholly he loves the kids. How readily he gives to them. But it's only now I'm starting to see how impossible I've made it for him to do the same for me. And thelengths he's gone to in order to be there for me anyway. Always under the guise of doing it for someone else. For Trent and Lena. For the kids.
Because I'm so fucking stubborn and afraid I've refused to let him close any other way.
I take a breath and swipe at both cheeks, forcing my face into neutral before I open the door and step inside.
The house is dark and quiet, except for the television in the living room playing I Dream of Jeanie reruns while Holly sleeps on the sofa. I'm guessing she tried to wait up for me and failed.
Instead of waking her, I cover her with one of the fleece throws the kids curl up in for story time, and head upstairs.
I check on both kids on the way to my room, both sound asleep, their faces peaceful. Something I note more frequently as of late.
The first weeks without their parents, both children woke from nightmares at least once a week. Gavin often cried in his sleep, while Remmi would wake from her grief, curled around her pillow, trying to use it to muffle her tiny sobs.
Those nights, I scooped them up and we all slept on the floor in the living room among blankets and pillows.
I'm sure it would have made more sense to bring them back to my bed, but it felt like a double-edged sword attempting to comfort them in the one room they should have known it while being reminded the source of that comfort would never be found there again.
Like so many things, it became a dance. A balance of old and new. The floor slumber parties shifted to cuddle sessions in their own beds until they fell back asleep. And eventually, those became less too.
In the meantime, I've changed the master bedroom as much as I could.
I painted the walls. Brought in all new furniture while scattering the old pieces throughout the house.
Remmi and Gavin each got a nightstand. The dresser became a coffee bar in the dining room. The full-length mirror went to the foyer, with pictures of both Lena and Trent tacked to the frame because I wanted the kids to have some small way they could still see themselves with them.
Now when we leave the house, both kids press a kiss to the pictures with an ‘I love you’. We keep them with us, even as the grief eases its chokehold on us. Sometimes days at a time. Others only moments.
The kids don't know it yet, but I do. Eventually those days will stretch to months and then to years. But no matter how much time passes, the impact never lessens.
I slip out of my clothes, peeling off a layer as I take the steps from the door to my dresser where I pull my sweatpants and tank top from the drawer before dragging my feet to the bathroom to get ready for bed.
When I finally crawl under my covers, I worry my mind will replay every aspect of tonight inside my head a million times over. But when I check my phone one last time before I turn out the light, I see a text. From Jovi.
Sleep, Liz.
And I do something I've never wanted to do before. I listen to him.
It's nearly seven when I wake to both children bouncing on my bed, excitedly yelping about Biscuit Barn. As soon as I'm coherent enough to tell them to stop, they drop to their knees,clamber over to smack sloppy kisses on my cheeks before scrambling away and out of the room shouting their goodbyes.
A few minutes later, Holly strolls in, two cups of coffee in hand.
"Someone got in late," she says, wagging her brows in a way that makes me blush and bury my face in my pillow.
"Holy shit," she calls out. "I was joking. But something really happened between you two, didn't it!"
"I don't want to talk about it," I call back, words muffled. Because I'm talking through my pillow like a twelve-year-old falling apart over her first crush.
"Okay, that's fine," Holly says in a sing-song voice, clearly trying to appease me into some semblance of maturity. "How about having a little sip of coffee for now."
