Chapter 2 Emma
Chapter two
Emma
The moment all five of us wedge ourselves into the car, I start to regret a lot of life choices. Like being a used SUV off of Marketplace.
Because that SUV decided today would be the day it wouldn’t start.
It’s also the day our nanny has to be an hour late.
Now, I’m not complaining about the extra hour with Josie.
I only made it three hours yesterday before taking an early lunch and rushing home to see her.
But when everyone needs to be somewhere else at the same time, the morning starts to unravel.
So we’re all piled in Steven’s car for now. A quick drive to school and work should be something we can all manage.
Should be.
Except, Easton and Sawyer are fighting over the same stupid, plastic dinosaur toy—when we have three identical ones somewhere in the house. Josie is crying, hating every second of being strapped in the car seat. And Steven is tapping away on his cell phone, blocking it all out.
The noise swells, matching the quick, shallow thrum of my pulse. It’s relentless and depleting, but I power through it, focusing on the small tear along the thigh of my pantyhose.
Steven exhales hard, shoving his phone in the cup holder and adjusting the rearview mirror.
His jaw is locked in that tight, immovable way it’s been set lately.
He didn’t get home until after two this morning, and having to wake up early for another shift today, the exhaustion clings to him like a heavy coat.
“Boys,” I say, just as their voices reach a new octave.
“Can we not do this today?” Steven mutters quietly. And I can’t tell if he’s talking to the kids or me.
I swallow any response that might come and click my seatbelt. My words have not been helpful lately.
“Mom, it’s mine!” Sawyer screeches from his seat.
“No, it isn’t!” Easton fires back.
“Give it back!” Sawyer wails and accidentally kicks the back of Steven’s seat.
Steven flinches, then every part of him slowly tightens with frustration, the fabric of his blue scrubs bunching up around his biceps as he grips the steering wheel.
Another double kick lands, and he whirls around toward the backseat. “Boys!” he snaps. “Knock it off.” His tone slices through the air and stabs me in the chest. Everyone freezes.
I reach for Steven’s leg. “They’re tired.”
“Yeah,” he bites out. “So am I.”
My hand retreats, like touching a scalding pan. Shame prickles over my skin for reaching in the first place. I lace my fingers together in my lap as we back out of the driveway, try to keep my breath quiet and steady. Even that feels like too much.
The radio is off, which seems to add to the tension. The boys try to stay quiet, but they can’t resist bickering under their breath. Josie cries on and off, and Steven huffs at every red light. It’s miserable.
At another light, I study the side of his face.
His usually dark, dewy skin is dulled. Fatigue tugs at his brown eyes, with heavy circles underneath that are practically permanent these days.
His usually clean-shaven jaw is prickly as he traded shaving time for just a few more minutes of sleep this morning.
I run a hand over my thigh, feeling my own prickles through the sheer hose fabric.
Steven yawns, and one threatens to climb up my throat in return.
I fight it, and the urge to rub my eyes, knowing my exhaustion pales in comparison to his.
We’re both stretched thin. And we’ve gotten terrible at telling each other.
Another kick hits Steven’s seat, and he slams his hand against the steering wheel, startling all of us. “I said stop!” he shouts.
Instantly, Easton’s eyes are brimming with tears, but like me, he refuses to let them fall. Sawyer, on the other hand, explodes. Wearing his emotions on his sleeve, like his father, tears cascade down his cheeks.
“Great,” Steven grumbles. “I’m sorry.”
Guilt tangles with irritation in his eyes as he glances in the rearview. Sawyer sets his jaw, now refusing to look in Steven’s direction, as the tears keep streaming.
“Sawyer?” Steven’s tone softens, and his eyes are pleading, but Sawyer doesn’t budge. Frustration then floods Steven’s features, sending his nostrils flaring.
“Hey”—I turn to Sawyer—“it’s okay. Daddy didn’t mean to scare you. He’s just tired.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Steven cuts in.
“I’m just trying to help.”
“I can fix it, okay?”
I nod once and turn back toward the road. Dread knots itself in my chest, like I know what I’m approaching, and I can’t get away from it. I can’t run from the impending doom. My fingers twitch, and I squeeze them tighter together.
Silence envelopes us, nearly swallowing me whole.
When we pull into the school, but Steven bypasses the drop-off line and parks, a slew of unreadable emotions now etched on his face. Sawyer unbuckles slowly, eyes flicking between Steven, as he climbs out of the car, and me.
We all watch as he makes it to Sawyer’s side, waiting.
When the boys finally climb out, Steven holds his hands out to Sawyer for a hug—a peace offering.
He accepts tentatively at first then, like a light switch being turned on, embraces him eagerly.
I see the tightness of Steven’s shoulders loosen and the words I’m sorry leave his mouth.
Then we head to the hospital, neither of us speaking, until we’re a block away and Steven says, “I’m doing my best, Emma.”
His tone feels accusatory, as if I don’t believe he is. I swallow hard, not knowing how my response can help right now. I know he’s trying. But when he gets defensive, my instinct is to retreat, because defensive Steven is hard to navigate.
“I didn’t say you weren’t,” I say quietly.
“You didn’t have to.” His tightened grip squeaks against the steering wheel. “I can see it.”
I gape at him. “See it? So you’re assuming what I’m thinking?”
“I don’t have to assume; I know. And you stepping in doesn’t help me fix the issue with our kids.”
That stings. “I was just trying to help.”
“It didn’t feel that way,” he mutters, eyes fixed on the road as the light turns green. He presses the gas a little too quickly.
I want to ask what it did feel like. What he thinks I’m doing. What he wants from me. But I’m sure anything I say will somehow be used as evidence of whatever criticism he’s convinced he’ll get.
We ride the rest of the way in silence. He pulls into the hospital parking lot and cuts the engine. For a second, neither of us moves. Then he gets out and meets me at the front of the car.
He drags a hand over his face, bone-deep exhaustion tugging at every feature. His mouth opens slightly, like he’s about to say something. Please say something. But it closes again.
I want to hug him. I want to tell him we’re okay. But he’s already late. And maybe he doesn’t want a hug anyway.
My chest tightens as his eyes search mine. There are a thousand words there—questions, frustrations, something almost like apology—but none of them make it past our lips. He forces a smile and presses a quick kiss to the top of my head.
“I’ll see you tonight,” he says.
“Have a good day,” I whisper, but he’s already heading inside.
I watch as he disappears through the double sliding doors. He doesn’t turn back.
He used to turn back.
He used to chase me across campus lawns, down library aisles, laughing when I tried to get away. We’d walk backward into work, refusing to take our eyes off each other. We were wild and carefree, and so in love it was impossible to think we’d ever be anything else.
Now an ache settles deep in my bones, that love and longing tangled up with confusion. Distance. Life. I don’t even know what we are now.