Once again, Tucker is the one doing everything for me, and once again there’s not much I can do for him. I don’t have the kind of money to make all his dreams come true. I don’t have people around me who can love him and make him feel less alone.
All I have is nice boobs and a great bananas foster bread recipe.
And when he falls asleep on the flight with his head on my shoulder, I go to great lengths not to disturb him while entertaining Birdie and trying not to wet my pants.
Tucker rouses just as we land, jerking upright as he apologizes for falling asleep. He looks over where Birdie sits on my other side, like he needs to make sure she’s okay. She gives him the biggest grin, the expression displaying the mouthful of half chewed pretzels she just crammed in.
He reaches across me to smooth back a little of her curly hair, the look on his face filled with so much love it’s almost palpable. Last night when he said she was his, I almost broke down, which really would have put a damper on the moment. But now, there’s no arousal or lust keeping me in check, and I immediately burst into tears.
“Hey.” Tucker turns his attention to me, concern tightening his expression. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” It doesn’t sound like it’s true, but it is. For some reason, I’m sitting in an airplane seat bawling my eyes out over how right everything is. It would seem that after years of everything being wrong, my body doesn’t quite know what to do with this change of circumstance. “I’m just really happy.”
“Good to know this is what that looks like for you, because I would have been very confused.” A smile tugs at Tucker’s lips. “Does this also happen when you’re only moderately happy? I’m just trying to get an idea so I know what to expect.”
I roll my eyes and then start to laugh over how fucking happy I am to be rolling my eyes at his goofy self. So now I’m laughing and crying at the same time.
I think something’s wrong with me.
“It’s just a lot right now.” I swipe one hand across my cheeks. “I’m sure I’ll be back to normal in a day or two.”
“I’m not sure you’ve ever been normal, Ruthless.” Tuckerleans in and presses a kiss to my forehead. “And I love that about you.”
When it’s our turn to deplane, Tucker pulls down our carry-ons, passing me mine before taking his and Birdie’s, and leads us up the aisle. Between the two of us, we manage to get my—our?—toddler safely off the plane, through the terminal, and into Tucker’s truck.
He holds my hand the whole drive home, looking in his rearview mirror almost obsessively at where Birdie sits. As soon as we're in the garage, he gets Birdie and me out, ushering us inside before going to collect our luggage.
Birdie makes a beeline for the corner that still has all her toys exactly where she left them. Since she’s occupied, I go to use the bathroom. I check my reflection as I wash my hands, and discover I am a hot mess. I take a few seconds to splash cool water on my face and swish some of the mouthwash under the sink. It’s not as great as I’ll feel after I dig out my toothbrush and skin care, but I’m no longer quite as puffy and my mouth doesn’t taste like the inside of a shoe.
Back in the kitchen,I find Tucker spinning in a slow circle, our suitcases and carry-ons at his feet. He looks from the entryway to the great room, brows pinched together. “Where’s Little Bird?”
“She’s in the great room playing with her—” I point to the spot where my daughter was just a couple minutes ago.
There’s no Birdie.
“Birdie?” I listen for any sign of where she might be. I know she couldn’t have gone far—she’s still too small to open exterior doors—but that doesn’t mean she can’t figure out how to climb up a piece of furniture and fall off of it.
Or go up the stairs and then roll back down them.
Tucker must have the same thought I do, because he also turns for the staircase. The gate designated to barricade thebottom is still there, but instead of being tightened into place, it’s propped against the banister.
“Shit. I didn’t even think to put that up before I left.” Tucker takes the steps two at a time, calling out for Birdie as he goes.
I’m right behind him, not exactly worried, but feeling a fair bit concerned knowing how quickly my daughter can make a mess. We both rush past the open door to his room, thinking she might have gone to her old bedroom.
Now her new bedroom.
But our steps slow to a halt after a few paces.
Tucker turns to face me, and I can tell by the flare of his nostrils he smells what I smell.
I cringe as he goes past me, flipping on the light as he steps into the space I’m hoping we now share. There, standing right next to his—our?—bed, hunkered down with pinkened eyebrows, is the smelliest little girl I know.
“What are you doing, Little Bird?” The question is almost identical to the one he asked the first time she was in here.
And just like the first time she was in here, Birdie gives him a blunt response. “Poopin’.”
She lets out a particularly productive sounding fart and I wince, knowing the odor that kind of sound usually accompanies. “I’m really sorry.”
