Chapter 18 The Art of Putting People in Their Place Emmett #2
The front door opens, and Marlene, one of the social workers, steps inside, shaking the snow off her hat. “Brrr. It’s cold out there today!” She gestures inside with her hands. “Come on in, sweetheart. It’s nice and warm in here.”
A small boy shuffles inside, one slow, tiny step at a time.
He’s wearing a coat at least two sizes too big, hanging past his knees.
His burnt-auburn hair is dusted with snowflakes, his ears frozen and red-tipped.
He can’t be much older than Connor, if I had to guess.
Three or four, a little thing. But it’s the way his gaze trembles, the way he clings to those tears like a lifeline, refusing to let them fall down his cheeks…
that’s what has me seeing my wife. Both of them hurt, scared, desperate to hold it together.
“New kid?” Adam asks quietly.
I assume Emily nods, but I’m still watching the little boy as he huddles in the corner of the room, chest heaving.
“Teen mom,” Emily murmurs. “But raised by grandparents. They recently kicked her out and told her to take him with her. Didn’t want to do it anymore. She had nowhere to go, and without a permanent residence… they had to be separated.”
Something inside me roars, rattling my rib cage, burning through my veins. More anger, probably. I’m finding a lot of it today. “They threw their daughter and grandson out on the streets? In the middle of winter?” My fists ball, and that anger works its way into my jaw, clenching it tightly.
Volunteering at Second Chance Home is one of my favorite things about being part of this community.
Connecting with these kids lifts me up in a way I can’t explain, and watching them go on to find loving homes or be reunited with their families when the circumstances are right is such a special feeling.
But every once in a while, the reality of some of these situations really sinks in.
The kids who are here because somebody refused to step up, or decided they no longer wanted the responsibility.
The kids who are here because the one person they should’ve been able to trust beyond measure decided to take that trust and shatter it at their feet.
Why do those people get to have kids? Why are people like that entrusted with such a precious gift, only to throw it all away?
Why not Cara and me?
The words are on the tip of my tongue, but it’s not a question that has an answer.
Fucked-up things happen every day with no rhyme or reason.
Like grandparents disowning their daughter and grandson right before Christmas.
Like watching the bravest woman I’ve ever met slowly admit defeat, and feeling helpless as my wife slips away from me.
All eyes come to me as I stand abruptly, shoving Cara’s bracelet in my pocket. “I’m fine,” I lie as my friends call after me.
Pale eyes slice to mine, drowning in so many tears it’s impossible to tell if they’re more green or blue. They stay on me as I cross the room, stride toward the door.
Green, I decide as I stop in front of him, his head tipping back to hold my gaze. Earthy and muted, with blue-gray flecks that hover like storm clouds.
“Here,” I say, struggling to keep the whispered word free from bitterness as I crouch in front of him and pull off my hat.
I fix the cozy blue-and-green Vipers beanie over his head, the corner of my mouth twitching when it falls over his eyes.
Our fingers touch as we reach to shift it back at the same time, and I stand, swallowing as I stare down at him.
“To keep those little ears safe outside, ’kay? ”
He blinks, and when I glance back at him from the bottom of the steps out front, I watch as a tear rolls down each round, pink cheek.
I FUCKING HATE IT IN HERE.
Silver threads of tinsel scattered all over the floors like a badly shedding dog.
Goopy snowflakes stuck to my pants, the furniture, the kitchen counter, instead of the patio door like they’re supposed to be.
Boxes of ornaments and decorations, tripping hazards that litter the floor, and Mariah Carey on the speaker.
A jumbled mess, every bit as loud as it is blinding, just like my head.
And right now, I hate it in there too.
I thought I’d get a head start on decorating. Hoped the music and the tinsel would make Cara smile, remind her how much she loves this time of year.
But nothing is functioning properly without her. It’s like every single piece of me is acutely aware of how fragile she is right now, how our entire world has tilted on its axis. How close we are to spinning out of orbit.
The right move, even the smallest one, and we’re one step closer to finding our gravity again.
The wrong move, even just one, and everything implodes.
That’s how it feels, anyway.
The front door opens, and I hold my breath.
“Ew, yuck. It looks like Santa’s elves threw up in here.”
The door slams, and I release my breath as I tear open the Skittles and M&M’s, dumping them into a bowl. “Thanks, Natasha,” I mumble as she enters the kitchen, setting grocery bags on the counter, the same bright smile that lights her face every time she greets me.
“Oh, hey, Em! Is this your handiwork?” She gestures around the room and grimaces. “Sorry. You know, it’s not so bad now that I’ve had a good look. I think it’s admirable that you do this kind of stuff. More men should be like you.”
I don’t know what that means, but I mumble a thank you anyway as I pull out the ingredients for some elaborate hot chocolate recipe Garrett sent me. My spine stiffens as I feel Natasha at my back.
“What’s this?” Her words tumble down my bicep, and I step to the right to get some space. “If you needed something at the grocery store, and Cara didn’t want to go out and get it for you, you could’ve texted me.”
“Cara’s at work. I stopped on my way home. It’s no big deal.”
“Still.” She nudges my arm, smiling. “You have my number. Don’t be afraid to use it. In fact, I wish you would.”
Christ, I’m tired of this.
At first, it was nothing more than innocent eyes that lit up when I walked in the room, tucking her hair behind her ear and giggling.
Somewhere along the way it became insults at my wife’s expense.
I’ve been ready to fire her on numerous occasions, but Cara always insists it’s a harmless crush.
That Natasha’s a single mom who needs the money.
That Cara knows her own worth and isn’t threatened.
But goddammit, that doesn’t make it any easier to bite my tongue.
“I can’t believe Cara spends so much time at work,” Natasha continues, as I pull the milk from the fridge. “If I was your wife, I’d be treasuring every minute that you’re home.”
I close the fridge, spinning around, and she’s right fucking there, in my fucking space, pressed against my goddamn chest.
She bites her lower lip, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “Making sure to give you a reason to keep coming home to me.”
I blink down at her, swallowing the words I want to say, the ones I want to shout. Instead, I step around her, heading for the stove. “Excuse me.” I read the recipe over and over before I finally shake my head, turning back to Natasha. “You wanna be a housewife, Natasha?”
Her eyes light. She steps closer. “I just want to take care of my husband.”
“Mmm.” I nod, crossing my arms. “Yeah, not Cara. The housewife thing, I mean. She takes care of me, definitely. Just like I take care of her. We are partners, after all, and that’s what partners do.
Christ.” I laugh. “She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
” I look over at Natasha, and I almost feel bad for her.
She must be desperate for someone to love her, to want her.
But it’s not me. “I could stand here and list every single reason why I’ll keep coming home to Cara, but I’d be standing here forever, and the only person who deserves all that time and all those reasons is her.
I’ll be coming home to Cara for the rest of my life. ”
My jaw tics as I turn back to the stove, shifting the milk onto a burner, measuring out the cocoa. Un-fucking-believably, Natasha finds the nerve to keep going.
“I think it’s great you’re choosing to stick with her despite it all.
Did you know that men are three times more likely to divorce their wives after infertility?
I can’t imagine how difficult things must be since she can’t give you a baby.
It must add such a complicated layer of resentment to your relationship. ”
Slowly, I twist back to her. “Pardon me?”
“Of course, there’s adoption, but a lot of people worry they won’t love the child like they would if it were biologically theirs.
” She taps her lips, looking over my shoulder as if she’s given it some serious thought.
Then she shrugs, stepping into me, her hand on my forearm.
“I just worry about you, that’s all. It seems tense around here lately.
I wish I could take your mind off things. ”
My eyes drop to her hand, gliding slowly over my forearm.
She stops just below my elbow, where the sleeve of my sweater is pushed up, and slips the tip of her nail below the navy cashmere.
Her gaze flickers above my shoulder again, and I follow it this time.
A hollow laugh rattles in my chest when I spy one of the sprigs of mistletoe I hung, right above me.
I squeeze my eyes shut as I ride through the laughter, and when I open them, Natasha is staring up at me, her gaze deliriously hopeful as she inches closer.
“Off.”
She hesitates, brows furrowing at my abrupt order, the edge to it she’s never heard.
“Take your hand off me.”
“I—”
“Now.”
She yanks her hand back, scrambling away as if physically forced.
I rake my hands through my hair then down my face as another bitter chuckle leaves my lips. Leaning against the counter, I shake my head, grinning at her. “The nerve is astounding, Natasha, it really is.”
Sighing, I stalk out of the kitchen. She stumbles after me, matching my steps as I walk her down the hall, toward the front door.
Gathering her coat and scarf, I thrust them at her, aiming a pointed look at her shoes. “It’s frosty out there. Might wanna put those on.”
Pulling a wad of cash from my wallet, I push it into her hand. “That should cover you for the next two weeks, though in all fairness, this is long overdue.”
“Wha—B-but—Emmett, I—”
I hold up my hand, silencing her. “I’m done.
My wife is the reason you had this job as long as you did.
Convinced me to let you stay even after you started trying to take her place, tearing her down every chance you could get.
Why? Because she has a huge heart. Fucking massive.
And not that it’s any of your goddamn business, but that same selfless heart is the reason Cara would have no trouble loving a child that wasn’t biologically ours.
She loves without limits, without fucking conditions.
She loves people for who they are, exactly where they’re at, and that?
That’s exactly why I love her. Baby or no baby, that woman is my goddamn wife.
My family. And I won’t stand here and let you disrespect her. ”
I haul the door open, and Natasha stares up at me, tears welling in her eyes as the bitter winter wind whips at our cheeks.
“You’re fired. Get out.”