Chapter 16 Emma #3
I hear Malcolm tell Steven, “I’m the least overwhelming person you know,” but the longer I look at the woman staring back at me, the quicker their conversation fades into the background.
My dark circles look like they could be permanent, adding a dusky tone to my green eyes.
My hair is half pinned back now, bumpy and lopsided, and my gray hairs at my temples seem to be amplified under the fluorescent lights.
Then I notice a small spot, right there on my chest, and a beacon of awareness shoots through me.
I should’ve handled this hours ago. I press my hand to the spot, and a throbbing pain pierces through me.
Kate clears her throat, and I see, in the mirror, her point at the pump bag sitting in the sink.
I glance between it and Steven, laughing at something absurd Malcolm has said.
I grip the countertop, wrestling with myself and what I need to do, what I want to do.
I don’t want to leave Steven alone for too long, and I definitely can’t pump in his room.
In his mind, he’s only twenty-four years old and has probably never seen a breast pump in person.
Textbooks never count in these circumstances.
If I wasn’t freaking him out now, that would definitely be his undoing.
“Go ahead,” Malcolm says from behind me. “I won’t let him escape.”
Steven barks out a laugh before glancing at me in confusion. His eyes are soft and patient, the way I know them, the way I need them. But as the pain and dampness under my shirt start to spread, I realize I don’t have time to explain.
“I’ll be right back,” I announce before scooping up the bag and heading for the mother’s room I saw on the second floor.
By the time I get back, I’m a new woman, more level-headed and energetic. I guess a dry top, empty boobs, and brushed hair is my new drug of choice.
“Hey, guys,” I sing-song, tossing the pump bag in the closet. “What’d I miss?” The question is meant for all three of them, but my eyes catch on Steven as his gaze flicks down my frame and back up. It’s quick, distracted, like he doesn’t mean to linger.
Then his dark eyes meet mine. He blinks, as if he’s been caught crossing a line, and I know color creeps up my cheeks in response. Heat unfurls beneath my skin as he drags a restless hand over his face.
“They were just telling me about their summer plans,” he finally says, dropping his hands into his lap. His gaze trips over me again, and my stomach flips.
“What you really missed,” Malcolm cuts in, hauling himself out of the recliner, “is us boring him to death. I can only do small talk for so long before it starts to sound fake.”
“Malcolm,” Kate snips at him, offended for all of us. “He’s just kidding.”
Steven waves it off, completely unbothered by Malcolm’s comments. Knowing him, he’s already read Malcolm and decided he’s harmless. The way he’s sunk deep into his pile of pillows only proves it; Steven’s guard is down because he knows there’s no threat here.
“Alright, well, you can go now.” I hug them both and guide them out.
For a long moment when it’s finally just us, I say nothing. Steven says nothing. We just stare at each other, his eyes tripping over me a third time.
“Why do you keep doing that?” I finally ask.
His eyes snap to mine, embarrassed. “Doing what?”
“That.” I wave vaguely in his direction. “You keep giving me that look. Do you…not like this outfit?”
It’s meant as a joke, a way to cut through the tension, but the words land heavier than I expect. Suddenly, I’m hyperaware that maybe he really doesn’t like it, and my arms wrap around my waist before I can stop myself.
“I like it. The blue is really pretty.” He points to my top, half untucked from my skirt and definitely flecked with breastmilk.
“You’re really pretty.” A self-conscious laugh escapes him. “Wow. Did I really just say that?”
I laugh. “You did. And thank you.” I shift on my feet, suddenly aware of every inch of him, of how, even though I’m fifteen years older than what he remembers, he sees me as pretty, maybe even desirable.
But there are so many other parts of me now that aren’t as pretty. I’m not the same girl he remembers.
“Do I tell you that?” he asks, voice low.
“That I’m pretty?” I ask, and he nods.
“Sometimes.” My chest warms at the memory of all the times he whispered those words. It tugs a smile to my lips, but it falters quickly as reality sinks in. “Not as often as you used to, though.”
His face falls, sadness pooling in the soft lines I’ve never noticed on him before. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.
“Hey, hey.” I slide onto the bed, the urge to comfort him as instinctive as breathing.
“You don’t need to apologize for things Present Steven did.
” He arches a brow, and we both laugh at how ridiculous it sounds.
But sitting here with this Younger Steven, this confused and breathtakingly familiar version, I know I can’t hold him to the same standards as the man I’ve known.
I can’t punish him for what we’re going through right now.
Something twists in my gut as Steven reaches for my hand, weaving his fingers through mine.
The touch feels almost foreign—like everything about this situation.
It’s so youthful, so innocent, holding someone’s hand.
Present-day Steven and I touch, of course.
But I can’t remember the last time we held hands like this, the way you do with a first boyfriend or a longtime crush, fingers clasped tight, a silent promise of togetherness.
Something in me sings at the contact. I’ve missed this. I’ve missed him.
He brushes his thumb over my knuckles, and the heat in his touch sends a thrill through me. “Can I ask something?” His eyes search mine urgently.
“Of course.”
“Are we happy?”