Chapter 10 Steven
Chapter ten
Steven
The car ride home is unbearably quiet. And when I don’t summon the courage to speak up before we’re pulling into the drive, Emma reaches for my knee and gives it a squeeze. A silent attempt at peace before we’re around the kids.
We’re quickly swallowed by the bedtime chaos, separated by tiny, overly energetic bodies. She has to nurse Josie while I wrangle the twins in the bath. I don’t even have time to take my shoes off before the boys ping-pong their way down the hall and turn on the tub.
“Thank you, Cindy!” I hear Emma call out as she disappears into Josie’s room.
“You’re welcome, Ms. Jones. See you tomorrow!” Our nanny waves over her shoulder and locks the front door on her way out.
The bathroom floor is already covered in a layer of water when I walk in, biting it the moment my Birkenstock hits the tile.
Suddenly, gravity isn’t my friend, and my legs slide out from under me, and I hit the floor.
The boys erupt in laughter, no concern whatsoever, as I moan at the pain from impact.
“Be careful down there, Dad.” Easton cackles.
“Do we need to call a doctor?” Sawyer jokes, like he hasn’t used that one on me a million times already.
They howl, pointing at me and splashing the water like it’s the pinnacle of comedy to watch their forty-year-old dad roll around like a flipped-over turtle.
“Alright, alright,” I say when I make it to an upright position. My back burns all along the vertebrae of my spine as I collapse against the wall.
They suds up, splash me, splash each other, battle with monster trucks, and try scrubbing only their elbows when Easton announces, “I think that’s enough for tonight. Now we sleep!”
Climbing out of the tub is comical as they, too, slip on the tile, nearly greeting the floor with their face. But because I’m the adult, and laughing at my children is frowned upon, I advise them to be careful as we make our way down the hall.
Everything happens in a blur, the routine has become second nature, and honestly, I’m lucky the boys are who they are—agreeable, helpful, eager to please. It makes bedtime very smooth.
My biggest contribution is story time.
Before having kids, I never pictured myself being the guy to tell stories.
I always enjoyed listening to Emma read out loud, attempting accents and sound effects as she’d read her fantasy books.
But one night, it just fell on me, and I ran with it full force, weaving obscure tales about cheese cities and gremlin kings. Story time quickly became my thing.
Tonight, however, feels different. My eyes glaze over the pictures in Dragons Love Tacos, and by the time I reach the final page, my voice is monotone.
“The end.” I close the book.
I glance to Sawyer’s bed on my right where he’s already fallen asleep. Easton, on the other hand, is lying there awake, his big brown eyes glaring at me.
“What’s up, bud?” I ask, tucking him in.
“What’s wrong with you?” he asks, looking at me like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve.
“What do you mean?” I ask coyly. Easton has always been the intuitive one.
We can’t ever get anything past him. The kid stopped believing in Santa at four years old.
After immense questioning on his part, Emma and I tried explaining the logistics of Santa’s delivery methods with as much Christmas zeal one could conjure in the situation.
He looked at us with the same look he’s giving me now, said, and I quote, “Sounds fake, and I’m ashamed you would lie about something like that. ”
“Something’s wrong.” He sighs, turning over and looking up at the glow-in-the-dark stars speckled on the ceiling. “You didn’t do any voices. You always do voices.”
I see his mouth tick in frustration as he pulls the blanket up to his neck.
He stays fixated on the stars, not looking at me.
A part of me is glad; I hate disappointing them.
And Easton looks exactly like his mother when he’s disappointed.
Something about the way his eyebrows pinch and arch in one fluid motion is uncanny to Emma, and they have the same personality too.
They’re helpers, givers, sacrificing so much to please the people around them that when something doesn’t go the way they hope, it’s almost too much to handle, and they get anxious.
Luckily, Easton hasn’t shown any signs of generalized anxiety, but still, I can’t help but hover when stress arises.
“I did voices,” I finally say.
“Dad,” Easton chides me, still glaring, eyebrows still mirroring my wife’s.
I blink at him. He’s right. I’m letting the weight of everything else crowd out this time with him, letting grown-up problems seep into something that should be simple and sweet.
Oh how I wish I could be a boy again, not worrying about my marriage, or work, or bills.
Just focus on getting the story right, making sure the dragons get their tacos.
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
I snatch the book from the bedside table and climb into his bed, letting him and his panda from Build-A-Bear squish into the crook of my arm, then start the story from the beginning. Accents, sound effects, and dramatic pauses commence before he’s finally snoring.
After ninja-crawling to the door, I take in the sight of them. Their sleepy smiles and tender breaths are something I never want to get tired of. I don’t ever want to forget this season, no matter how worn down I might be.
When I make it downstairs, Emma hasn’t made it out of Josie’s room yet, so I take the opportunity to clean up the kitchen, make tomorrow’s lunches, and throw a load of laundry in the dryer.
“See, this isn’t that hard,” I tell myself as I wipe the counter down. “Your wife shouldn’t be doing all of this on her own.”
Nearly twenty minutes go by, and after a minor crisis with Josie’s bottles, there isn’t much left to do. But Emma still hasn’t come downstairs.
Josie’s bedroom door is cracked open, and a small sliver of gold light illuminates the opposite wall. With the sound machine whirring, I’m not as quiet as I should be when I walk in, but it doesn’t matter. Emma and Josie are fast asleep in the glider.
The sight stops me. It’s beautiful and devastating all at once.
Emma’s head is cocked to the side, hair tangled and draped over half her face.
The shadows beneath her eyes make her look depleted and kind of dehydrated.
Josie, on the other hand, is nestled peacefully against Emma’s chest, looking full and well rested.
She’s perfectly content. They’re polar opposites holding onto each other.
It’s the clearest picture of motherhood I’ve ever seen. Emma giving so completely of herself so Josie never has to go without. I can’t describe the feeling that happens in my chest. I just know it hurts, and it takes extra effort to move across the room to them.
I ease the baby into her crib, careful not to wake her. Then I lift Emma into my arms, cradling her the way she held our daughter. Holding her against me seems to be all I need for everything bad and angry that was stirring inside me to fade.
As I ease her onto our bed, I press a kiss to her forehead. Then another to her lips. Her skin is warm beneath my hands as my thumbs brush her cheeks, and for a moment, she leans into the touch like she’s not tired down to the bone.
I settle beside her, letting the weight of the day fall away as she curls into me.
Her head finds the space beneath my chin, her hand slipping over my chest, fingers curling lightly into my shirt like she’s afraid I’ll vanish if she lets go.
It’s moments like these that solidify the persistent gnawing in my chest, the one that says I have to make this work. I can’t lose her.
She sighs so quietly it’s almost fragile. And she feels so small. I know I’m the reason. I’ve brought us to this place. I’ve made her feel small and fragile.
I run my hand slowly up her side, a quiet, careful reassurance that I’m here. She melts into the touch, pressing closer, her breath mingling with my own.
“I love you,” I whisper into her hair. It comes out rough and heavier than I intended.
“I love you,” she murmurs around a yawn.
We need to talk. The words I need to say are right there, but they get lodged in the back of my throat. We need to hash this out, hash everything out. Everything that’s sitting between us and stealing pieces of our life.
But I’m tired and terrified. I’m also angry.
Angry with myself…with her a little, too.
If I say the wrong thing, it could make everything worse.
I could lose the tiny bit of closeness we have right now.
So instead, I just hold her, my hand at the small of her back and lips brushing the top of her head.
Her chest rises and falls against mine, her breathing slowly evening out until she’s fully asleep. I feel the tension in her body unwind against me. It’s absurd to think, but this simple thing is a reminder that she does still trust me enough to relax. It’s so trusting it hurts.
I close my eyes, letting myself feel it. The ache of everything. The relief, the anger, the fear, all of it tangling together so tightly I don’t know how to separate them. I don’t know how to fix this, but I know I need to.
I can feel myself itching to figure it out. Assess, evaluate, make a plan. That part of me never really shuts off. But I’m tired, and moments like this with her are rare. So instead, I just hold her and remember how lucky I am to have something so precious.
My luck runs out when two feet find their way to my abdomen. All the air leaves my body when Sawyer lands on top of me.
“Daddy, Daddy! I can’t reach the milk!” He says this while simultaneously bouncing on top of me.
“Sawyer,” Emma mumbles into her pillow next to me, “it’s too early for cereal.”
“Nuh-uh.” He stops bouncing. “The clock is at breakfast time. It’ll be at school time soon.”
With sleepy eyes, Emma and I look at each other, and I’m sure we are the other’s reflection as realization dawns on both of us.
I snap up for my phone, Sawyer goes rolling to the end of the bed, and Emma is already across the room. It’s 7:08. We have to be out the door at 7:30.
“Shi—”
“Talky mushrooms!” Sawyer cuts my words off with a smirk and bounds out of the room.
“Steven, the boys’ lunch—”
“Already handled,” I say, scrambling around the room for my socks and scrubs.
Emma is already in the bathroom, the faucet turning on and off as she says, “And we have to schedule Josie’s check-up.”
“Do you need me to?”
“No, I can,” she calls from behind the door. “But will you—”
“I’ll remind you,” I say, because I know that’s what she’s asking for.
“Thank you,” she mutters as she stumbles out of the bathroom, looking as put together as one could be after the night we had, with her short brown hair pulled back as far as it’ll go and a red sweater clinging to her curves.
I nearly forget to breathe. It should be illegal for a beautiful woman like her to spend her day behind a desk, planning pep rallies and parent-teacher conferences.
“And it’s jiu jitsu tonight, so could you pick up pizza on the way home?” She kisses my cheek as she hops into her heels and heads toward Josie’s room.
Most days, I take the time to admire Emma while she’s getting ready.
And today would be no different if we weren’t already late.
I’d pretend to be tying my shoes at the foot of the stairs, but really, I’d be watching her.
I’d soak in the way her favorite black slacks accentuate her curvy hips and how the smooth skin of her neck peeks out from under her messy ponytail.
“Dad, hurry up!” Easton yells from downstairs.
Guess I’ll fawn over her later. I stumble down the stairs and grab all of our bags. Emma is right behind me, holding a sleepy Josie in her arms.
“Oh, and we need to order a cake for the boys’ birthday next month!” She gives my elbow a squeeze as she slides past.
The warmth of her fingers sends a jolt of awareness through me.
We slept tangled up together all night. It’s the closest we’ve been in months.
It was the best sleep I’ve had in months too.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the entryway mirror and barely recognize myself, looking wild and disheveled, completely unprofessional.
“Honey?” Emma’s hands slip around my waist, and my insides go tight. “Did you hear me?”
I clear my throat, smoothing my palms over my hair in a poor attempt to pull myself together. “Yes, birthday cake. Email me the details, and I’ll get it ordered.”
This statement does something to her that I can’t quite read. I watch her face in the mirror, her green eyes flickering through an array of emotions before the corners of her mouth turn up in a smile that hits me square in the chest.
“Thank you,” she whispers, squeezing my waist and stepping back. “Boys, it’s time to go!”
“Hey,” I turn and catch her hand, pulling her gently toward me. “Can we talk later?”
“Of course.”
I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, and her eyes flutter closed. Her cheek falls into my palm, and her lips part. I get so close I can taste the mint of her toothpaste tickle my lips.
I breathe it in and whisper, “I love you, Emma Jones.”
She hums in response, eyes still closed.
“I’m going to make this work.”
Her eyes spring open now.
“I know you’re tired. And I know I’ve messed this up more times than I can count, but I meant what I said to you fifteen years ago.
I will spend the rest of my life doing whatever it takes to give you a life you love.
” Her breath catches as my words, my vows, spill out of me.
She needs to know; I need her to know this. “I won’t let you down, alright?”
Before she can answer, my pant leg is being tugged toward the front door, and Easton yells, “We’re going to be late!”
“We’ll talk tonight?” I ask, stumbling backward against my will.
Emma laughs as the boys herd me toward the car. “Tonight.”
“Yeah, yeah, you love each other. Let’s go!” Sawyer flings open the driver’s-side door and climbs over my seat, using his feet as propellers to land in the back.
I’m forced into the SUV under duress, catching the time on the dash. If I’m serious about proving I can change, I can’t screw up the school drop-off. Moving more urgently now, I back out of the drive, yelling, “I love you!” out the window.
One final look at my wife, and then we’re gone.