Chapter 19
Chapter nineteen
Steven
When We Found Time
“And the couple of the evening, ladies and gentlemen…”
The DJ’s voice billows through the speakers, cutting through the lively hum of conversation. “Mr. and Mrs. Tom Jones!”
Mom and Dad glide into the ballroom, and the crowd erupts.
They’re both glowing with joy, dressed in crisp white, as they float to the center of the dance floor.
Emma whoops beside me as Sawyer wiggles excitedly on her hip.
Easton is perched on my shoulders, clapping with wild abandon.
I cup my hands around my mouth and holler, shooting Dad a thumbs-up as he pulls Mom close.
The lights in the room are soft and ethereal, with incandescent bulbs strung overhead speckling the floor.
Every shimmer feels like it belongs to them.
Sinatra croons through the speakers, and the crowd falls into a hush.
We watch as my parents sway together, timeless and easy, as if fifty years haven’t passed since their first dance.
Emma leans into me, her hip pressing against mine as we move in rhythm to the music. I slip an arm around her waist and hug her tight.
“They’re so perfect together,” she says, full of awe. Her eyes gleam a glassy green beneath the light as she watches them. I follow her gaze to Dad’s hand resting protectively on Mom’s back, the way his face hovers close to her ear, murmuring words only for her as he leads them through the steps.
“They really are.” My throat feels thick as I watch them, confident he’s reminding her why they’re here and what they’re celebrating. I can see it in her eyes, the question, Why are we dancing in front of all these people?
“Why are we here?” she had asked earlier, in front of their pastor, right before the vow renewal.
“Mom, it’s your anniversary,” Jay reminded her. Her voice quivered despite her best efforts. That tremor—the disbelief that our mother, brilliant and sharp, a world-renowned obstetrician, could forget something so simple—cut deeper than any diagnosis ever could.
Mom blinked at all of us, just moments before we were supposed to walk down the aisle to Dad, completely lost. Somehow, we got her through the doors, but every second of the ceremony felt like waiting for something to break. Halfway through, Emma had to remind me to breathe.
Watching them now, though, you’d have no idea. You’d never know my mother, Donna Jones, is losing her memory. Most of the guests here don’t.
Across the room, Jay and Shayna stand rigid, hands clenched, ready to step in if something goes wrong. But Dad’s got it under control. He twirls Mom, tossing my sisters a wink, and she laughs, head tipping back, utterly lost in the man she’s loved for fifty years.
When the song ends, the crowd goes wild, and Mom beams as she soaks in the applause. She’s always loved attention, not in a boastful way but in that “this is what life’s about” kind of way.
The night buzzes around us with music, laughter, and the occasional cry of a sleepy toddler.
Emma rests against me, radiant even in her exhaustion.
Her hair is pinned back, her face bare, glowing in the low light.
She hadn’t bothered with makeup for the evening, said she didn’t have the time.
Or maybe she just didn’t care to. I didn’t push.
If I had, she’d think I was saying she didn’t look perfect. And she always looks perfect.
Postpartum lingered for her longer than we expected. Before things got bad with Mom, she warned us it might take years for Emma to feel like her old self again. Me too, apparently.
“Both of you,” she had said. “You both will go through things, her more than you, but you can get back to the way it was over time.”
But over the last four years, I’ve realized that, after kids, you never fully go back.
Our old selves are gone.
This reality, the inevitable, used to keep me up at night in the beginning.
The boys were so little, and Emma lost herself in loving them.
I mourned the Emma I first fell in love with.
She was so lively and had a charisma about her that sent me to my knees.
But twelve years together has taught me that change isn’t loss.
It’s evolution. To expect either of us to stay the same would’ve meant missing out on the version of her standing beside me now.
The beautiful, strong wife and mother forged from everything we’ve lived through.
Sawyer stretches and yawns in my arms, nuzzling himself closer into my chest. It sets off a chain reaction of yawns and sleepy smiles from both Emma and me. We laugh quietly, sharing that wordless exhaustion parents know too well, and start gathering our things to head upstairs.
The ballroom is still alive as we weave through flowing bodies and soft music. Mom retreated up to her room with Tamara about an hour ago, and Dad stayed, catching up with some old rancher friends.
As we say our goodnights and near the elevator, Jay intercepts us with a sly grin on her face.
“Let us take them tonight.” She motions for Easton, a three-foot, sleep-deprived zombie clinging to my knee for stability.
Before I can even think to protest, Emma’s already handing over the boys and steering me into the open elevator. A mischievous smile curls her mouth as she calls out to Jay, “I owe you one!”
“What was that—”
My words cut off when Emma’s lips find mine.
The rest of the world dissolves as she kisses me, eager and reverent all at once.
Her hands press into my chest, her body leaning into mine until my back meets the cool metal of the elevator wall.
Each kiss sends a sharp wave of need through me like a bolt of lightning.
It’s a painful reminder of how long it’s been since we’ve been alone like this.
Our breaths turn ragged, mingling between us as her hands travel upward and settle at the nape of my neck, holding me there like she’s afraid to let go.
“I’ve missed you,” she pants, resting her forehead against mine.
I kiss her again, deeper this time, pulling her as close as humanly possible. My hands trace familiar paths, finding her hips, her waist, the small divot of her back. The silk of her blue dress stretches beneath my fingers, tugging softly, and I have to remind myself not to tear it away right here.
“Did you miss me?”
“You have no idea.”
A moan fumbles out of me as I press my lips to her neck. She already knows how desperate I’ve wanted to be with her, but still, she needs to hear it. The whole seeing-is-believing thing…she needs to feel it threaded through every word, every breath.
So I tell her again.
“God, I’ve missed you.”
Her breath catches as I pull her bottom lip between mine. She laughs softly, rising on her toes to kiss me more and more. My body aches as her hands glide up and under my button-down shirt. She bites her lip as she traces the lines on my stomach as though she’s trying to memorize the feel of me.
“How long is this elevator?” I groan, my voice rough against her lips. Heat pulses through me as the world around me hones in on just her. You’d think we’d be better at controlling ourselves.
The slow climb of numbers in the corner barely registers, and the thought that someone could walk in isn’t enough to stop these deprived toddler parents. Life has been…busy. Between parenthood, work, and everything that isn’t just us, moments like these have become rare—and too hard to resist.
When the elevator finally dings on the sixth floor, I scoop Emma into my arms and step into the hallway, both of us breathless with laughter.
I sprint toward our room at the end of the hall. Emma always insisted we stay near the exit when traveling with the boys. Something about being with loud, tired toddlers makes it the best option. I didn’t heed those words. Until now.
With a quick swipe of the keycard, she kicks the door open as I carry her inside. We waste no time as we tumble onto the bed, laughing like a couple of teenagers, getting lost in one another the way we used to. The way we still can. The intimacy that time hasn’t taken away.
Our old selves may be gone in some ways, changed entirely in others, but this…this wild, aching pull toward the woman I love…hasn’t faded. And I don’t think it ever will.
****
The sun peeks through the sheer curtains, painting the room in gold. The clock blinks back at us: 6:18 am.
“We’re going to regret this later,” Emma giggle-groans, pouring syrup over her pancakes. She’s freshly showered, wrapped in a hotel robe, sitting cross-legged in the center of the bed with the silver room service tray balanced on her lap.
Somewhere in the middle of the night, we made the valiant decision to stay up till morning.
Kissing. Talking. Being together in every sense of the word.
I told her about work; she told me she’s been thinking about going back.
We cried about Mom, mourning the future we always imagined with her in it.
We watched late-night cartoons, played Wordle, and prank-called Jay, who threatened to drop the boys off at our door if we woke her up again.
We talked about the kids, about parenthood, about how we’re really doing.
Emma admitted she wants to stop taking her medication. Promised she’s doing better. I didn’t like it; she knows I didn’t. But we agreed to work on a plan together.
“I’ll order us coffee.” I yawn, pulling out my phone. After ordering our usuals, I glance up to see her staring down at her pancakes, untouched.
“Do you want something else?” I ask, shifting closer to her.
“I meant what I said.”
I pause, unsure what she’s referring to. She sets her fork down, moves the tray aside, and turns to fully face me. Her face is serious. It’s the same look she wears when something matters to her. I straighten, waiting, watching as her eyes flicker between mine.
“I’m doing better.” Her words teeter out of her, like they need some convincing. But her eyes…they don’t waver. “I really am a lot better.” She clears her throat and sets her shoulders like she’s preparing for a debate, but her hands tremble anxiously in her lap.
“I know you are, baby.” I take her hands, letting her feel the steadiness of mine. “I’ve noticed for a while; you’re doing amazing.”
“Good, good.” She exhales, relief spreading across her face. Then, with a deep breath, she says, “I think we should have another baby.”
These words hit me slowly, lost in translation as they travel to my auditory nerves. Discombobulated, tangled in the exhaustion and disbelief. I blink once. Then twice.
“I’m sure you think it’s ridiculous,” she huffs.
“I mean, come on, we could have twins again, right? That’s insane.
It’s insane.” Her voice spikes with each word, as if the more she speaks, the more she starts to question this idea altogether.
“I mean, maybe it’s not? No, it is. Three children is a lot.
” She half laughs, but it’s lost in the panic growing.
I see her anxiety rise with the goosebumps prickling across her chest. I see it in the darting of her eyes, the bob of her throat.
“What am I thinking?” she gasps. “We can’t have another baby! We’re not ready. We’re so tired. The boys…ugh, I love them, but they are so exhausting. Oh my gosh, they clogged the toilet with Legos last week. We can’t add to this!”
A tiny, somewhat adorable, whimper rumbles in her chest, and despite myself, I smile.
“Come here.” I pout playfully, pulling her into my arms. I hold her tight until I can feel her heart thudding against my chest. “Where are you right now?”
She sniffles. “A hotel.”
“What do you smell?”
“Syrup,” she whispers then leans in closer. “And your sandalwood bodywash.”
She inhales dramatically, like I’m intoxicating, and I chuckle, feeling her breath warm against my skin. “What do you see?”
“I see your chin hair.”
I rub my chin against her neck, and she bursts out laughing, wriggling to get away. I tug her back until we both tumble into the pillows.
I press my palm to her sternum, feeling the erratic rhythm of her heart, silently willing it to slow. Her chest rises and falls in deliberate rhythm as she forces her way through her breathing exercise.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask once she’s visibly calmer.
She throws her arms over her face, the towel on her head toppling to one side. “I don’t know what I was thinking,” she mutters. “Just ignore me.”
“Never,” I whisper, pressing a soft kiss to her collarbone. “We don’t have to talk about it.” Kiss. “But I do think…” Kiss. “...we need to be better a little while longer before we add to this.” Kiss.
She hums. It’s low and unreadable. Agreement maybe, or exhaustion, but she doesn’t say anything else.
The silence stretches, thick enough to press on my chest. It fills the room until I can’t take it anymore. The need to explain myself, to fill the quiet with reassurance, overtakes me.
“If you want another baby…” I start, but my words trail off, unfinished. Whatever was going to follow would’ve been a lie anyway.
I exhale slowly. “What if we talk about it after the summer?” I finally say.
“The boys will be starting school in the fall. We can see where we’re at then, see how we’re feeling.
” I try to make my voice sound hopeful, steady, something she can hold on to.
The last thing I want is for Emma to think I don’t want another baby—or worse, that I don’t think she can handle it.
Because I do. I know she can.
It’s me.
I’m the one who’s not ready.
We just got back into a rhythm. Being a dad feels good now—manageable most days.
But it didn’t always, and I don’t know if I’m ready to go back to the early days of feeling helpless.
The nights where Emma cried for hours, drained from the fluctuating hormones.
The days I’d leave work mid-shift because she couldn’t breathe through a panic attack.
Those first months where I couldn’t even tell my boys apart.
The nights I’d fall asleep holding one of them in the recliner and wake in a panic, terrified I’d dropped him.
The sense that I couldn’t keep anything together, and I was failing at every aspect of my life.
I can’t go back to that. Not yet.