Chapter 17
Chapter seventeen
Steven
When We Were Having Fun
“No, you don’t understand. Colin Firth is the best.” Jay slaps her hands on the table hard enough to rattle our drinks.
“He is not!” Emma fires back, laughing into her soda water.
“I’m with her on this. You’re wrong, Jay!” Shayna wraps an arm around my wife and squeezes her tight. “And Emma is never wrong. Right, Steven?”
I press my lips together, eyes wide. That single pause earns me a chorus of gasps before straw wrappers are launched at my head.
“How dare you!” Shayna accuses, shoving my arm.
“I didn’t say anything!”
“Your eyes said it all!” Tamara declares, pegging me with a balled-up napkin.
“I’m just saying, no one can be right all the time.” My defense is weak at best, especially when Emma glances at me with that smile. The one that undoes me every time. She’s right in all the ways that count and then some.
“I am right about this, though,” Emma whispers, her breath teasing the sensitive spot on my neck. A blaze of heat shudders down my spine, and I tug her closer because having her pressed against me is the only way to contain that sensation.
“Fine,” I whisper, “you’re right.” I brush my lips against her neck, and she melts into me instantly. Her eyes flutter closed as my hand finds the soft curve of her hip, grazing the skin just under the hem of her silver top.
A gust of cold air jolts me back to reality as the door to our karaoke suite swings open. Mom and Dad pile in with the rest of us, holding a plate of fries and a pitcher of dark-red liquid.
“We got the room for another hour.” Mom beams as she grabs the songbook.
“An hour?” Jay groans. “I have work in the morning.
“Oh, come on, I only turn sixty once.” Mom pouts, unleashing her well-practiced puppy-dog eyes on each of us one by one.
No one fights back, though we all want to. We’ve been belting out classics for the last two hours. Her eyes widen, lingering on me specifically. She knows I’ll crack first.
“Let me check with the sitter,” Emma says, giving my thigh a supportive squeeze. “I think we have another hour in us. Right, babe?”
I nod, reluctant but trying for enthusiastic, and take a long swig of my coffee. The coffee I had to order at eight-thirty at night because my parents wanted to hit a karaoke bar ‘like old times,’ conveniently forgetting the early morning waiting for all of us.
Mom does a little dance in her seat before helping herself to the fries. Dad puts on his glasses and peruses the songbook, and everyone else shares the same mournful-for-sleep look before masking it with an eager smile.
“Who’s next?” Dad asks, eyeing me expectantly.
“Steven hasn’t gone yet,” Emma announces, then as if she realizes what she’s just done, her hands jump to cover her mouth.
Mom’s eyes grow twice their size, and Dad smirks. My sisters start chanting my name while Emma just stares at me, secretly loving every second of it. I only do karaoke for her. Otherwise, I try my darnedest to stay quiet in the background when we do it as a family.
“I’m sorry,” she giggles behind her hands. “Forgive me later?”
“It’s too late,” I mutter. “What’s done is done.”
She gives me the most reassuring, but also not-hating-this-situation-as-much-as-you smile, before gently nudging me toward the stage. Dad tries to hand me the songbook, but I wave him off.
“I don’t need that.”
The group lets out a collective ohhhh at my confidence, and it’s enough to propel my feet to center stage.
Not quite enough to settle the nervous energy prickling at my fingertips, though.
I cue the song on the screen and curl my hand around the microphone.
My shaky breath booms through the speakers as I lift it to my lips.
A ball of nerves twists in my stomach, sloshing against the coffee.
“No, you didn’t!” India yells as the first note of “I Will Always Love You” flows out of the speaker.
I ignore their laughs and wide eyes as I clear my throat, pinning my gaze on Emma, and let the words flow.
I have no idea how I keep finding myself in these kinds of situations, but as her smile grows and her eyes mist over, I know it’s worth it.
The ridicule I will have to endure for the rest of the week will be worth it. For her.
The group jumps in, singing loud enough to drown out the music, and I take it as my chance to slip out of the spotlight. It flickers between fluorescent blue and green, off-beat and blinding.
I blink against the pulsing lights, reaching for Emma’s hand. She pulls me down beside her on the couch while everyone else is on their feet, singing, dancing. My parents bop in their seats, grinning at the chaos as they watch my sisters belt Whitney at the top of their lungs.
“They’re the best!” Emma shouts over the music.
“They’re alright,” I tease then chug a glass of water.
My eyes snag on the sparkle of Emma’s top, catching the shimmer of her eyeshadow and the red of her lips. My throat tightens. “You look beautiful,” I manage. “Did I…mention that already?”
She laughs, leaning closer as her hands slides up my thigh. “A few times.” Her wedding ring catches under the neon as her fingers toy with the edge of my pocket.
I tug gently at the hem of her top before pressing a kiss to the soft curve of her collarbone. A shiver of goosebumps erupts across her skin, and I follow it deliberately, up her neck, along her jaw, until I finally meet her mouth with mine.
“Get a room,” Jay groans.
“It’s not their fault you left your husband at home,” Tamara shoots back.
“Let them love each other,” Mom pipes up from her seat, sipping her mocktail.
She’s not allowed to drink alcohol since starting her new medication.
It’s too risky. She was never much of a drinker anyway, so she’s not missing anything, but somehow it makes me want to skip drinking too.
In solidarity, I guess. Dad seems to feel the same, sipping on a soda water.
Emma’s laugh is warm against my cheek as she sneaks a kiss there. Jay’s nostrils flare when she clocks it.
“We’re happy, alright?” I tell the group, though mostly Jay, as I tug Emma closer by the waist. I know how it looks.
We’re putting on a show. We’re trying too hard to be in love.
Because after six years of marriage and two kids, no couple could possibly still act like this.
But it’s not for show. I’m hopelessly, ridiculously in love with my wife, and I don’t see that changing anytime soon.
And I’m pretty sure she feels the same way.
Her arm slides behind me, fingers drawing lazy circles at the base of my neck.
If I had longer hair, she’d probably be twisting it around her finger.
The brush of her touch sends a shiver of desire swimming through me, and I grip her hip tighter.
I feel the subtle rise and fall of her chest against my arm, and it makes me want to forget everyone else in the room.
“Let’s sneak out of here,” I murmur, and she smiles.
“One more song!” Dad declares, hauling himself up from the booth and making a beeline for the karaoke machine.
Emma hides her laugh in my shoulder, her teeth catching her lip as she pulls her hand from my neck and straightens. I groan like a sulky teenager, dropping my hand from her hip as we turn to watch Dad cue up his track. I could shake the man for being a mood killer.
He throws me a wink, and my jaw tightens. Emma’s touch has me wound so tight and buzzing with energy. I can’t stop my legs from bouncing.
“Careful, you’ll run right on out of here,” Emma teases, her hand softly cupping my knee.
It’s the same gesture I do for her when she’s wound up.
Only hers isn’t restless like mine; it’s anxiety.
The bouncing of her legs is a quiet signal of nerves.
Mine? Just the sheer desire to get out of here and be alone with my wife.
I give her a small smile just as Dad announces, “Steven, you have to take Mom’s place.” My nostrils flare and lips press into a tight line at this, but everyone else laughs.
I want to protest, whine, “I already went!” But Mom’s eager eyes settle on me, and the weight of the moment lands hard. Like Dad said this afternoon when he invited us…this could be our last one. The last karaoke night as a whole family—or at least one of the last she’ll remember.
Emma nudges me gently, encouraging, just as “Islands in the Stream” begins to play overhead.
“You’re coming with me,” I instruct, tugging her up from the couch.
Mom claps, thrilled, and Emma resists for a beat.
But only for show. She’s living for this.
We join Dad under the now pink and yellow flashing lights, singing Dolly Parton’s part together.
Our harmonies are horrid, and Dad adds a soulful twang to his line.
Together, it sounds terrible. But we go all in, finishing the song to a raucous standing ovation.
“That was great,” India claps halfheartedly. “Can we go now?” She’s barely hanging on, exhaustion weighing her body and eyelids down.
“Alright, let’s go.” Dad smiles, turning the microphones off. “Y’all are getting old.”
“I believe it’s you who is old now, sixty-two,” I joke, clapping him on the back as we head to our cars.
He waves me and this nugget of information off as he helps Mom climb into the cab of his truck.
I watch as he buckles her in and kisses her forehead before walking around to the driver’s side.
The cold night air whooshes past, stinging the tips of my ears.
I jump to Emma’s side, wrapping my arms around her like a human shield. Neither of us brought jackets.
“Thanks,” she says through chattering teeth as we hobble together to the car.
Once there, I find myself mirroring my dad.
Buckling Emma in and kissing her. She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t call me out on copying.
She saw my dad too. She just gazes up at me, our faces not even an inch apart as I hover over her in the passenger side.
The cold air crawls in through the open door.
“I love you,” she says, her cold hand cupping my jaw.
“I love you,” I say back, meaning every ounce of the word. “You make me the happiest man alive.”
“Really?” she asks, and I know she’s joking, but something in me ignites at the question.
Like I need to make sure she knows how happy she makes me.
I tell her to wait as I shut her door and rush to the other side and climb in, cranking the heat.
I rub our hands together, creating warmth there, then rub along her arms, feeling the shivers race across her skin as I do.
Once we’re both warm and our teeth aren’t chattering, I take her hands in mine and hold them against my mouth, my tongue grazing her knuckles as I rest my lips there.
I can’t help but close my eyes and sink into the feeling; the contact of even just her knuckles is enough to render me speechless.
My eyes flutter open, and I inhale, the scent of her wrapping around me.
Her earthy bodywash, her floral lotion, the small hint of sunscreen from her face moisturizer, the smell of pasta from the food she cooked for the boys, everything that makes her her consuming my senses.
“Emma, I am so happy.” My tone is serious, and her eyes widen. Her mouth opens to interject, but I add, “I know you know. And I’m sure I don’t need to dwell on it, but I need you to know just how happy you make me.” She listens patiently as I find the words to say.
“I don’t want a life without you. I don’t want to be away from you for more than half a day. I want to grow old with you, have more babies with you, and die holding hands like they did in that movie you like.”
“The Notebook,” she adds, smiling.
“I have been obsessed with you—in a healthy, non-stalker way—since the moment I met you. You are everything to me. You’re an amazing mother, a wonderful person, and an even better cook.”
She cackles at this. Emma is the worst cook—her words not mine.
“I think our life together is wonderful. It’s not perfect, but it’s the closest thing I’ll ever get to that. And I…” my voice cracks unexpectedly. “I hope you’re happy too.”
Her hands are on my face now, swiping at the dampness settling below my eyes.
“I am,” she says, smiling. “I am the happiest woman alive because of you.”
The past few hours flicker through my mind like a film I didn’t realize I should’ve been paying closer attention to. The things I dismissed as minute now feel important.
Mom searching the kitchen, asking where she left her keys. Twice. The pause and stutter before she said Emma’s name, as if reaching for something that wasn’t there. Her shirt buttoned unevenly and her pants clashing, details she would normally fuss over.
That blank and distant look as Dad laughed about their trip to the post office just last week.
Little things. Ordinary things. Slipping away from her like dust in the wind, right there in front of us.
As if Emma’s thoughts have synced with mine, she lets out a quivering sob.
It’s barely audible, but to me, it’s deafening.
Thunder shattering all around me. I cradle her face in my hands and pull her closer.
I see everything. The freckles dusting her nose.
The lines forming near her eyes. The soft flutter of her lashes now heavy with tears.
Every one a tiny story, a piece of time I’m desperate to hold on to.
“I hope we are always happy,” I whisper, the words catching on something in my chest.
She nods, her face moving gently against my palms. I kiss the tears now cascading down her cheeks. I kiss her lips. I kiss her nose. Again and again, memorizing the pattern, the warmth, the feel of her.
As if the right combination of kisses could unlock a vault, one where I could store this moment, all of our moments, forever. A place to keep them safe from time, from age, from harm.
“And I hope we never forget.”