Chapter 18 #2
“Is he okay?” Panic claws at me as I stumble toward the house.
“Yes, he’s fine. Hey, hey, it’s alright.”
She cups my face, the green in her eyes glimmering with concern. Her thumb drifts softly over my sore cheek, brushing away a tear I hadn’t even noticed.
“I’m so sorry,” her voice trembles. “Maybe we shouldn’t have done this. I don’t want you overwhelmed, and they’re only seven. They don’t know—”
“Em…” I whisper, gripping the back of her neck.
The move shocks me as much as it shocks her.
Every touch or move between us has been made with caution, a hesitancy that feels unnatural but needed.
Now all of that is gone, overpowered by the innate need I feel to comfort her, when I am clearly the one who needs to be comforted.
“It’s fine,” I tell her, rubbing my thumb across her shoulder, the cotton fabric of her t-shirt rippling with the motion. It’s a deep red with the letters GHS on the front.
“Are you sure?”
“They’re just kids,” I say, because that feels like something someone would say in a situation like this. ‘Just kids’ seems to cover a broad spectrum of scenarios.
My eyes snag on Emma’s bottom lip as she chews on it nervously. The soft pink grows white the harder she does.
“Do you want me to wait out here?” I ask.
“No, no, that’s not necessary.” She waves me off, but the way her eyes flick between me and the door is less than convincing. I arch a brow at her, and she sighs. “Fine, yes, could you just…”
Her words linger there as she backs into the house, grimacing as the overlapping voices grow on the other side.
“Just give me two minutes.”
It’s definitely been longer than two minutes when she finally comes back. I’ve walked the length of the porch ten times, memorizing where the two loose boards are and finding the hidden stash of chalk under the bench seat.
The front door opens slowly, and I step into the foyer.
The inside of the home is bright. White walls, with a different shade of white for the doors.
The fireplace has been glazed over with a beige color, and there are framed photos on every wall.
Some posed, some candid. Everything at eye level isn’t as alarming as Emma told me to prepare myself for.
But when my gaze meets the floor, I see what she meant.
The floor is covered in an array of toys—Legos, Hot Wheels, coloring books, some odd-shaped rubber toys—a multitude of colors and shapes contrasting against the neutral walls.
It’s an organized mess, with labeled bins under the television and baskets designated for larger items, like blankets and stuffed animals, nestled in the corner.
“I’m sorry it’s a mess.” Emma groans, scooping up some pillows and tossing them back on the couch.
My chance to respond is cut off by a small whimper coming from the kitchen. When I glance around Emma, I see two heads peeking out from behind the kitchen island. They duck down when they catch me looking.
Benny and Ellie are sitting at the dining room table in the corner, whispering something to the floating heads.
Emma notices and shoots them a glare. I’d bet they’re failing at their kid-wrangling duties right now.
“So just to prepare you,” Emma whispers, “I did tell them you were in an accident.”
Her voice is soft but weighted, and the grimace that follows makes my stomach turn.
I can’t imagine having to tell children their parents were in an accident—or worse, they might not recognize them.
A faint déjà vu feeling flickers at the edge of my mind, trying to surface, but it’s too hazy to make sense.
“I didn’t know how else to handle it,” she continues. “They’re both too smart for their own good. They’d figure it out eventually.”
“Figure what out?” I whisper, momentarily distracted by the strange pull of memory. “Oh…that I don’t know who they are?”
The words hit her like a bullet. Her hand flies to her chest as if she can hold the pain there, and she squeezes her eyes shut.
The sight of her trying to hold herself together physically hurts me.
I wonder how often she does that, ignoring her need for a break, even just for a moment, so she can be strong for everyone else.
“May I?” I ask quietly, holding out an arm for a hug.
Her eyes follow the motion, traveling up my arm and lingering on my bicep, before she blinks up at me and nods.
The hug is painfully awkward. The worst hug I’ve ever given someone in my life. I’ve apparently made love to this woman, created a life with her, and yet I can’t hug her like a normal person?
“Thanks.” She sniffs, wiping her face before leading me toward the living room.
Benny greets us, creating a wall between us and the couch.
I see four small legs swinging and fidgeting against the cream fabric.
My pulse stutters. I glance at Emma, who can’t tear her eyes from the couch.
Something heavy settles deep in my chest—the kind of weight that comes when you know what’s about to happen will change you forever.
“Are you ready?” Benny whispers.
I take a breath and nod.
Then, everything slows.
Benny steps to the side, and there they are.
Two boys, mirror images of each other. Mirror images of me.
It’s like watching time fold in on itself.
My breath catches. They’re beautiful. Their skin is lighter than mine but still carries my dark tone.
Black curls crown their heads, exactly like mine at that age.
But their eyes… Their eyes are Emma’s. Bright green, alive, and full of light.
My knees give out before I can stop them and I hit the floor.
“Steven!” Emma drops beside me.
I don’t take my eyes off the boys. I can’t. They sit frozen on the edge of the couch, white-knuckling the cushions as they hold themselves back.
“Daddy?” The one who ran across the yard earlier trembles, his small voice cracking with hope.
Benny lifts a hand, signaling them to wait, and they stiffen.
“Give him a second,” Emma murmurs.
“It’s alright,” I whisper, though I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince. My nerves pull tight as caution starts to signal in my brain. I don’t know how to do this, how to be this…but I hold my hands out anyway. “Come here.”
In one swift motion, they launch forward, colliding into me, and somehow it feels right.
Like they were meant to be here, and I was meant to hold them, both of them.
Tiny limbs tangle around me, hearts beating fast against mine, their laughter mixing with tears as they cling tighter.
Processing this kind of situation must be impossible for a seven-year-old.
“Daddy, Daddy,” one hiccups into my shoulder, his voice small and trembling. “Can we finish our firetruck?”
“He doesn’t remember the firetruck, Sawyer,” the other, the one who raced across the yard, mutters. He pulls back from me, tears streaking his face as he studies me. “You don’t remember, do you?”
I don’t. I wish with every part of me that I did. This feeling, the feeling of letting them down, coils itself around my ribs. I sniffle, gazing into their misty eyes, praying for some inkling of memory to come from them. Nothing does, and my body deflates.
“Of course he remembers firetrucks,” Benny chimes in, his voice steady—and technically not lying. “Let’s go grab it, and you can show him how far you’ve gotten.”
Sawyer bolts for the stairs, but the other—Easton, I realize—hesitates.
He watches me cautiously for a second, bright-green eyes pinning me to the spot, before following his brother.
Emma told me about them in the hospital.
Easton is two minutes older; Sawyer is taller.
Sawyer prefers Spiderman, Easton likes Ironman.
How Sawyer is like me, and Easton is like her. Now I see what she means.
Sawyer jumps in headfirst, needing to feel something to understand it. That’s me—at least the me I remember. Easton, on the other hand, is careful. Him racing across the yard to me earlier wasn’t just to get to me, his dad; it was to find out for himself. He needs to see it to believe it.
And something tells me that is exactly what Emma is like.
“Are you okay?” she asks me once we’ve migrated to the couch.
The boys carry in the two-foot-tall half-built Lego truck and set it in the center of the living room.
They lose a few pieces in the transition and scramble to fasten them back on before dumping the rest on the ground to assemble further.
“This’ll keep them busy for hours. You ready for that?
” Benny sounds like he’s joking, but his eyes carry a warning, a brace yourself kind of look.
I glance at the boys, completely absorbed in the tiny red squares, tongues sticking out in concentration.
I expect the warning to sink in, to fill me with dread. But it doesn’t.
“I’m good.” I give him a smirk. He takes this as his reprieve from babysitting, pats me on the back, and disappears into the kitchen.
“Can I get you anything?” Emma asks me, but her eyes are on the Legos, lasered in. Easton keeps snapping the wrong piece on the wheel, preventing it from rotating fully. I see her press her thumbs together in her lap, the vein of her slender forearm pulsing under the pressure.
“This is killing you, isn’t it?”
“I’m dying inside. He’s tried that piece four times already.”
I snort. “Do we do this together?”
“Mommy’s not allowed,” Sawyer says, clipping a piece to the ladder.
Emma’s nostrils flare, and I bite back a smile. “Oh, really? Why is that?” I ask them, but my eyes are glued to the smooth line of Emma’s jaw and the tick that comes when Easton says, “She takes it too seriously.”
I bark out a laugh, and Sawyer beams at the sound. Easton doesn’t lose focus.
“I’m not the only one,” Emma grumbles, staring at Easton’s hands as he fumbles with the same piece. “I was banned when they built the garden. Apparently, building from the ground up is not how it’s supposed to go.”
I snort again. Her jaw clenches again when Easton finally abandons the piece and resorts to helping with the ladder.
I squeeze her knee playfully, and we both freeze.
Her eyes stay forward, not acknowledging the contact.
Touching your partner should come easy, and maybe subconsciously it is for me.
Maybe the memories are still there, loading.
But even if it comes naturally, it still feels foreign to me.
I barely know Emma, so it makes sense that I would freeze when this happens. But why is she?
That’s when I realize something about all the touches since I woke up. They’ve all been initiated by me. Any contact from her has been guarded and hesitant. Cautious. Is it because she doesn’t want to overwhelm me? Or is it something else?
I want to ask. I could tell in the car that there are things she’s not telling me.
When I asked if we were happy, I thought it would be met with something more than a curt nod.
But what I can tell of Emma…she doesn’t get into the weeds when she’s not ready.
And she doesn’t seem like someone who would open up around her kids. Our kids.
I remove my hand, my thumb grazing the seam of her pants before returning to my lap.
“Could we, um…talk later?” I ask her.
She blinks at me, but before she can ask what for or refuse, or whatever she plans to do, we’re interrupted by a small yawn.
A tiny yawn.
My head swivels to the right, and there, at the foot of the stairs, is Ellie, holding a baby. Josie. My baby girl.