Twenty-two
Morning breaks open in the Monroe house with the sound of small, stomping feet.
There’s cereal on the floor, a cartoon blaring three rooms away, and an unholy symphony of mismatched spoons clinking against chipped IKEA bowls.
Light floods the kitchen—too much, too honest—catching dust motes and the crusted rim of last night’s wine glass still on the counter.
Brielle stands at the counter in a faded t-shirt, the kind held together more by memory than stitching, and surveys the kingdom of half-emptied milk cartons, lost homework, and imminent mutiny over which kind of toast qualifies as “the good one.” She’s barefoot.
She doesn’t notice the cold. She doesn’t notice her own silhouette in the window, either, though the morning light paints it on the glass like an old-school transparency, all blurred edges and movement.
She feels it first in the way she moves: the difference.
There’s an unspooling in her hips when she shifts from fridge to toaster, a low-buzz hum in her thighs when she bends to retrieve the lost sippy cup from under the kitchen island.
Her whole body hums at a different frequency this morning.
It isn’t soreness; it’s fullness. Memory under her skin.
The coffee maker gurgles its last, and she pours a mug, extra sugar, then wipes the counter with the back of her hand. She’s running late, but it doesn’t matter. For once, the world can wait for her.
Jason slides in behind her, half-dressed for work and still smelling like sleep, hair mashed on one side from the pillow.
He scoops peanut butter with a chef’s knife (dangerous, always), then sets it down and puts both palms on the counter, bracketing her in.
Not close enough to pin her there. Just enough for her to feel his heat.
He says, “You’re in a good mood.”
He knows why.
He doesn’t say it.
She looks down at her hands, laughs into her coffee. “Yeah. It’s weird, isn’t it.”
He leans forward, his chin just grazing the top of her head, and for a second, she thinks he’s going to make a joke or a jab. But he just stands there, quiet, holding her in place. His hand snakes around her waist—slow, unhurried—and settles at the front of her hip. Not possessive. Just present.
She inhales, feels the weight of his hand, the way her body doesn’t flinch or try to escape the contact. She wants to say something clever, but instead she just lets herself be held, her spine finding a new line in the space they make together.
A shriek erupts from the living room—“Where’s my shoes!”—and Jason grins against her neck. “Should we pretend to be gone?” he asks.
“Too late,” Brielle says. “They already know where we live.”
He lets her go with a squeeze. “You want to handle breakfast or the search party?”
She glances over at the children, both in various states of undress, one leg in a pair of leggings, the other foot bare and sticky from jam. “You do shoes. I’ll do triage here.”
He’s already gone, heading for the foyer, his voice warm and organizing chaos: “First one with shoes gets to pick the radio in the car.”
Brielle pours the cereal, wipes faces, dispenses vitamins.
She even gets a laugh from the youngest, a deep-chested cackle that vibrates through her ribcage and out into the day.
She’s never been this awake before, not even after an all-nighter or a finish-line runner’s high.
She feels greedy for the sensation. She wants it to last.
The doorbell rings, a polite but insistent chime. She freezes, momentarily unsure which version of her is supposed to answer. She glances down—t-shirt, no bra, bare feet, hair wild—and smirks. She doesn’t care. She’s not hiding this morning.
She opens the door, and Leo stands on the mat, hands jammed in the pockets of his black hoodie, jeans torn at one knee in the way that never looks affected on him. He smiles—subdued—and says, “I brought the good coffee.”
He lifts a paper carrier with three cups, steam still curling from the lids.
“Welcome to the breakfast zoo,” Brielle says, stepping aside. “Shoes are optional, dignity required.”
Leo laughs, a sound that cracks his whole face open. He glances past her, takes in the chaos, and says, “Looks about right.”
She takes her cup from the tray, and when their fingers brush. This time, it doesn’t spike.
It settles—lower, deeper.
Not urgency.
Expectation. She feels a current—familiar, but not desperate. Not the old ache. Something new. It settles her.
Jason appears from the hallway, a child in each arm, both upside down and shrieking with joy. He sees Leo, nods, and says, “You made it.”
Leo nods back. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
There’s no shift in the air, no weirdness, no dance around last night.
Just three adults and two kids, moving in sync, running the morning on autopilot but with none of the edge.
Leo kneels to help tie a shoe, talks to the youngest about dinosaurs, even pours orange juice for everyone without spilling a drop.
Jason fills backpacks, wipes noses, does the final sweep for lost permission slips.
The kids pile out the door, backpacks thumping, voices raised in triumphant anticipation of whatever comes next. Jason rounds them up, yells, “Car in two minutes!” and looks at Brielle. His eyes soften. “You got her?”
She nods. “We’ll be fine.”
He leans in, kisses her cheek. “I know.” It’s not the kiss of a man checking ownership or scoring points. It’s just a kiss. Solid. There.
Leo lingers at the threshold, coffee in hand. He watches Jason load the kids, then turns to Brielle. “You okay?” he asks, his voice pitched low, just for her.
She considers. “Better than okay,” she admits.
He grins, but doesn’t move to touch her. He doesn’t ask the moment to become more than it is.
She says, “You coming back for dinner?”
“If you want me,” he says.
She wants to make a joke, something about being too much, but she doesn’t. Instead, she says, “Yeah. I do.”
He smiles, wide, and steps out onto the porch, letting the door swing behind him.
Brielle stands alone in the kitchen for the first time all morning. The silence doesn’t rush in to fill the space—she doesn’t allow it. She takes her coffee, wraps both hands around the mug, and lets the warmth settle into her bones.
She waits for the old spike of panic—the what-did-I-just-do, the guilt, the shame, the certainty that the world is about to punish her for wanting this much—but it never comes. The house is still standing. The marriage is intact. The air is clear, almost holy.
She runs her thumb along the rim of her cup, feels the tiny chip she’s never noticed before. She traces it, over and over, as if the repetition might unlock a secret. It does.
She’s not bracing for disaster anymore.
She’s not chasing the high, either.
She just is.
She finishes her coffee, rinses the mug, and heads upstairs to start the day for real. The stairs creak under her bare feet. Her thighs ache, not sharp, but constant. Every step is a reminder.
She doesn’t mind it.
She savors it.
She opens the bathroom door, steps inside, and lets this new version of herself settle fully into place.
?
The bathroom is still warm from Jason’s earlier shower. The mirror is fogged, the tile slick beneath Brielle’s bare feet.
She sheds her t-shirt and underwear in one practiced motion, leaving them in a heap on the closed toilet lid. She catches herself in the blurred reflection of the medicine cabinet and doesn’t flinch.
Not today.
She turns the water on hot and lets it run. The pipes shudder once, then settle into their familiar rattle. Steam unfurls slowly through the room.
When she steps under the spray, the heat hits almost hard enough to hurt. It wraps around her instantly, sharp and consuming, and she gasps at the force of it.
She lets the water find every sore place.
Her shoulders first, the tension there loosening by degrees. Then her back, muscles still tender from being held down against too many surfaces to count. She tips her head back and lets the water soak through her hair until it hangs heavy against her neck and spine.
She notices everything differently now.
The tremor in her knees.
The ache in her thighs.
The heightened sensitivity in her breasts when she lathers soap across her skin.
Her fingers drift almost absently to the mark at her collarbone where Leo’s teeth found her the night before. The bruise has deepened from red to violet. She presses it gently, testing the line between ache and pleasure.
Not like something that happened to her.
Like something she chose.
The water doesn’t wash the feeling away.
It sharpens it.
She closes her eyes and breathes in the steam. In the past, showers were for efficiency or for forgetting—rinse, wash, repeat, scrub away the evidence.
Now, she lingers.
Soap slips slowly over her stomach, her hips, down the length of her calves. She shaves carefully, unhurried, surprised by the way her own touch makes her shiver now.
Coconut shampoo fills the air. She remembers Jason burying his face in her hair the night before, breathing her in like he needed the scent of her to survive.
She rinses slowly, fingers combing through tangles, feeling every catch and pull like a memory her body refuses to surrender.
When the water grows too hot, she turns it down slightly but stays where she is, forehead pressed to the tile, letting the spray hammer steadily against her shoulders.
She catalogs every difference.
Every part of herself that feels expanded.
Awake.
Still hungry.
She stays until her skin is flushed pink and soft with heat, until the world outside the shower barely feels real anymore.
When she finally turns the water off, the silence rushes in around her—the hiss of old pipes, the slow drip of the showerhead, the pulse beating steadily in her ears.
She wraps herself in a towel and doesn’t rush to dress. Steam curls from her skin as she stands in front of the fogged mirror.