Chapter 11 #2
He commands an entire room, even asleep. Even when he’s stretched out on the sofa with a two-year-old.
Noah is nestled into his side, one arm wrapped around Aaron’s midsection and the other wrapped around the fluffy bunny that he stole from Summer long ago.
They look like a perfect pair. Like they were destined to be in this position together, vulnerable and resting.
I’ve seen Noah sleep with my friends and family before, but the scene in my living room is different. Of course, he took contact naps on Summer as a baby and let Levi rock him to sleep on long newborn nights. If that weren’t enough, even Zachary had snuggled him to sleep.
Aaron has no reason to take care of Noah, though.
I asked him to pick my son up from daycare as a last resort, not because I thought he would enjoy it. I knew he would take this in stride, a serious responsibility. An occasion that he would rise to.
Now, a new facet emerges from the picture I’ve seen. Aaron likes spending time with Noah. He’s relaxed in this environment. So much so that he could let himself unwind alongside my toddler.
Something loosens in my heart at the sight. Because it isn’t just the way Aaron protectively tucked Noah into his side.
Upon second glance, the details I missed start to emerge. They clearly had fun together before they fell asleep.
Boxes of snacks litter the floor—all Noah’s favorites. The teddy bear-shaped graham crackers with little chocolate chips. The melt-in-his-mouth yogurt chips. The bananas, speckled brown and sweet. Aaron had no idea Noah loved all of this.
Then, there are the other telltale signs that they had fun.
Aaron is covered head to toe in colorful stickers. His skin is littered with rainbow butterflies, smiley faces, and rainbows. On his cheek, there is a purple unicorn that looks a lot like the ones on my pajamas.
Soft laughter escapes me, a lightness I haven’t felt in years. At the sound, Aaron’s eyes flutter open. His head snaps up when he sees me near the living room, my shadow stretching long in the evening light. He relaxes when he recognizes me.
“You wore him out in just two hours.” I laugh again. “I might need you to babysit for me more often.”
“We had a lot of fun,” he offers, his gaze landing on Noah rather than me. Then, he seems to remember the stickers and apologizes. “I kind of let him do whatever he wanted to me.”
“It’s a good look on you.” I kiss him on the cheek. “Stay here for a few more minutes. I’m going to order dinner and then take him up to bed for the night.”
I dial the number taped to the side of the refrigerator, order two large pizzas, and come back to the living room. Noah’s body is heavy as I pick him up and cradle him against my chest. His warmth feels like coming home.
Upstairs, he lets me tuck him into bed without so much as blinking an eye.
Loving him has always been the easiest part of my life.
When he rolls over and grabs the baby blanket my mom made for him, I feel love surge through me, powerful and undeniable.
For my child, who brings sunshine when I need it most.
And maybe for the man who has been taking care of him.
Content that Noah is happy to sleep in his own bed for the remainder of the night, I head back to the living room. We crack open a new bottle of wine, clink glasses, and take a sip.
As Aaron raises the glass to his lips, I notice his tattoos. They have always traced up his arms, but they stand out more now that they have each been colored in with red and orange markers. Fitting for a fireman.
“Got some new ink today?” I ask, taking a small sip of wine.
“Noah is quite creative.” He examines his arm in the dim light of the lamp. “I just couldn’t tell him no.”
“Story of my life.” I sigh, thinking about how hard it will be to have to tell him no for the next sixteen years. I have nobody to share that burden with, a loneliness I acutely feel from time to time.
“He’s just so cute,” Aaron says. “He looks just like you.”
“He’s the spitting image of his dad.”
The words hang in the air between us.
I haven’t thought about what it would mean to tell him. We haven’t really talked much about James. Why he isn’t around for Noah.
Aaron doesn’t say anything, giving me space to say more if I want to. Instead of sharing, I grab the photo album from the shelf under the coffee table. The one I put together with the photos everyone gathered after the funeral.
On the first page, James stands on stage with a microphone. His eyes are closed, but his expression is undeniably the same one Noah has when he concentrates. The same eye shape. The same mouth.
“He does look like his dad,” Aaron agrees after a second. “I see you in there, too. But wow, what a resemblance.”
“It’s too bad Noah will never see it.” I run a finger over the photo. “He’ll never get to see that other part of himself.”
“Do you want to tell me what happened?”
I take a deep breath, steeling myself to open up to Aaron in a new way. His steady gaze is warm and loving, encouraging me to take a leap.
“James was the lead singer in a band that caught on. As they grew more popular, things started to feel harder. He got into drinking first. I don’t know when the drinking turned to drugs, but he got addicted.”
Aaron sits perfectly still. Of course, his line of work means he knows all about this side of life.
“I was working one night. Seven months pregnant. The call came to the hospital. He had overdosed. When I saw him, I went into shock and went into labor. Lisa rushed me to the L&D unit.” The sensations sweep over me, the memory of pain tearing through my stomach and the warm gush of water.
“I passed out, and the doctors delivered Noah that night. I woke up a widow and a mom.”
“That must have been beyond hard.” Aaron reaches for me.
I let him pull me into him, anchoring me and driving away the ache that comes whenever I think of James. Of the night Noah was born.
We jolt apart at the sound of the doorbell.
“Pizza,” I announce, getting up to get cash from my purse. The teenager hands over the boxes, accepts his tip, and leaves again.
Aaron joins me in the kitchen, grabbing plates like this is his home, too. He passes one to me, and we grab slices of piping hot pizza from the boxes.
“Pizza two times in two days,” he says, before taking a huge bite of pizza, cheese stringing down his chin. “We’re probably keeping that shop in business this week.”
“Got to do our part in a small town.”
“You never told me how Mr. Oakley is,” he says, steering us both back into more familiar territory.
“He went home this afternoon.” The old man had been less than enthusiastic about his departure. “He’d never admit it, but he likes being in the hospital. The fuss and the attention. He’s lonely at home.”
“You take care of him, above and beyond your job. You take care of everyone.”
“I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do.”
We stare at the empty plates on the table, neither of us moving for more.
Aaron leans over the table, his arms drawing attention again. My fingers trace the chaotic patterns that Noah drew through the thick black lines of his tattoos. Somehow, taking care of a toddler makes him look even more manly.
“We should get you cleaned up.”
The gleam in Aaron’s eyes tells me he has already thought this exact thing. The left corner of his mouth quirks up, almost tipping into a full smile. He doesn’t hesitate to stand from the table when I do.
I put a finger to my lips, telling him to be quiet, and then pull him upstairs.