Chapter 23
Chapter twenty-three
Emma
“Mommy?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think Daddy is back yet?”
I blink myself awake, the gray-blue light of early morning slipping through the boys’ checkered curtains. Easton is already up, sitting in his bed with the framed photo of him and Steven clutched in his hands. His eyes are red-rimmed, his cheeks still wet.
Without thinking, I climb into his twin-sized bed and wrap my arms around him. His tears soak into my shirt as he hugs me back. Shaky breaths and quiet sniffles come and go while I search for the nerve to answer his question.
But I can’t.
My silence must be answer enough, because his breathing breaks into whimpers as he squeezes me tighter. His arms and hands are chilled, like he’s been sitting on top of his covers way too long.
“What if he never comes back?” Easton chokes out.
His voice, though soft, is shattering, sending a sharp ache spearing straight through my chest. This is what it’s like to see your child heartbroken, truly heartbroken. A sob claws its way up my throat as I hold my son, and it takes everything in me not to let it loose.
“It’s going to be okay.” The words taste like acid, hard to swallow. “It’s only been a few days. We have to give it time.”
He sniffles and wipes his nose on my shirt before looking up at me.
His eyes, a dewy green version of my own, still look like Steven.
And they’re so young and innocent, so hopeful.
It’s all enough to rip me in two. I wipe his tear-stained cheeks and kiss the top of his head.
His dark curls brush my face as they point wildly in every direction.
“Do you think Uncle Liam was able to help him?”
“I hope so.” I force a smile at the hopeful lilt in his voice, ignoring the uncle part entirely. That must be a new development.
“Can I go wake him up?” he asks conspiratorially, grinning from ear to ear.
“Why don’t I do it this time? You can get your brother up.” I nod toward Sawyer, who is still asleep in his bed across the room.
Easton jumps out of bed eagerly and leaps into Sawyer’s, disregarding all waking etiquette. The picture frame topples loudly to the floor as they begin their morning brawl. I scoop it up along with the pile of blankets I slept on and smile down at the photo.
It was taken at Disney last year. Easton on Steven’s shoulders and Sawyer preoccupied with Goofy in the background.
I was pregnant enough that I got to sit and enjoy the food while Steven rode the rides.
We barely spoke. Being managed by six-year-old Mickey professionals made adult conversations difficult.
But it was a happy memory, a thing I sometimes forget is possible.
Joy ripples through me like sunshine as the memory flashes back: our last family vacation together. The last time Steven and I had fun together.
We weren’t perfect, but we were trying.
The grunts and groans of the boys wrestling fades as I head toward our bedroom to find Steven. But he isn’t there. The bed is made, and the lights are on, with no sign of him. I check the bathroom then peek into Josie’s room. Empty.
I reach the kitchen and find him sitting at the kitchen island, scrolling on his phone.
“Good morning,” I say, tightening my robe around my waist.
“Morning.” He stands, setting his phone to the side. “How did you sleep?”
I wince at the pain settling into my neck and lower back. “The floor isn’t meant for near forty-year-olds. How about you?”
“I really wish you would’ve taken the bed.”
“Absolutely not.” I wave him off and head to the steaming pot of coffee he’s brewed. “Thank you,” I say, filling two cups and handing him one.
“I slept horribly knowing you were on the floor in the boys’ room.”
“I’ll recover. It’s nothing new.”
“Do we do that?” he asks, like the idea of sleeping on the floor is earth shattering.
I can’t help but laugh. “Not lately, but yeah. Sometimes you have to.”
“Did I…I don’t know…do it as much?”
I eye him, amused. “Do what?”
He chuckles at himself, self-deprecating and adorable. “Did I sleep on the floor as much as you? Was it an even split?”
It might be the look of innocence peeking through his tired eyes, but this feels like another moment where I can’t bring myself to tell him the truth. He looks like a puppy dog, desperate to be told he’s a good boy, and something in me wants to give him that.
But I can’t lie to him. Amnesia or not, he’s a person who deserves honesty.
A reluctant sigh rumbles in my chest, and his eyes flare, preparing himself for the worst. I haven’t noticed it in a long time, but there was always something so magnetic about the way his face holds emotion.
The richness of his skin, alive with every feeling he lets surface, makes it impossible to look away.
“Not even,” I finally say. He nearly deflates but I quickly add, “but you helped more than most would.”
Relief floods him, subtle but very real.
He must be keeping score with himself. Knowing Steven, he probably has a mental checklist of what makes a good father, and he’s slowly marking it off.
I can’t imagine how disorienting it is not knowing who you are, especially what kind of parent or spouse you’ve become.
And though he hasn’t asked me outright, I can feel his need to know. What kind of man is Steven Jones now?
“You know you can ask me,” I say, taking a sip of coffee.
“Ask you what?”
“Anything you want, really.” I try to sound confident, because I do want him to ask me anything. I want him to feel safe. But anything could be just that—anything. And what if he doesn’t like my answer? What if it affects his neuropathways or whatever Liam said? The thought makes me queasy.
A caramel-tinged aroma swirls around me, bold and invigorating, bolstering my nerve. “But more specifically…you can ask me if you’re a good dad.”
His eyes jump to mine, wide and desperate, aching to know. But he doesn’t ask, like he’s too scared to know the answer or something. I give him a moment, but the question never comes, so I give him a tentative smile and pull out the milk and cereal.
“May I?” he asks, circling the island to join me at the pantry. “I wasn’t sure what they ate…didn’t want to get it wrong.” He chuckles at himself, embarrassed.
“They’re seven-year-old boys,” I tease, handing him the Froot Loops. “Anything sweet is a safe bet.” I pull the eggs out at the same time.
He smiles, filling both bowls before turning the stove on and cracking eggs.
He moves around the kitchen like it’s second nature—finding the silverware, grabbing the cooking spray—every motion smooth and deliberate.
His arms bend and muscles flex as he stirs, whips, and pours.
The veins roping around in his forearms, the same ones that have made my knees buckle for years, do their job with pulsing fervor.
I sink onto a barstool and watch him work.
“Does this feel familiar?” I ask, hope threading itself through the walls of my heart.
As nice as it is to have some respite from our fragile marriage, I need his memory back. The boys need their dad back. And watching him move around the kitchen like no time has passed makes me wonder if the memories are right there, waiting to resurface.
“Cooking?” he teases, glancing over his shoulder. The eggs sizzle, releasing a soft hiss and a warm, buttery steam that curls around him.
I roll my eyes. “Being in this kitchen.”
He doesn’t turn, but the smile in his voice is unmistakable. “Kind of.”
He deposits the eggs on four separate plates, and we move toward the table just as footsteps thunder overhead. Then loud chatter and the slamming of the bathroom door comes, which means the boys will be downstairs in sixty seconds or less. If I’m going to ask, it has to be now.
“How was yesterday with Liam?”
Steven and he were together for six hours yesterday.
I’ve been desperate, dying a slow, aching death, waiting for information.
For signs that we aren’t permanently lost in his mind.
That the life we built still exists somewhere inside him.
But I can’t stomach talking about it in front of the boys.
Their footsteps grow louder, and my eyes flick to the stairs.
“It was really good,” he whispers, catching on as his eyes dart to the stairs. “Some things came back. He’s pretty optimistic.”
Relief crashes over me, and a small nugget of gratitude for Liam nestles itself in my chest as I breathe, “Thank God.”
The boys barrel down the steps, tripping over themselves in their race to the table. They fight for the chair next to Steven, and Easton wins. I slip out of my seat on the other side of him without protest, and Sawyer happily takes it.
“We’ll talk more later,” Steven reassures me.
I disappear upstairs to get ready before Josie wakes up. My efforts are in vain as she wakes up the moment I twist the shower knob.
“So much for that,” I sigh.
Disappointment for missing my window is replaced with guilt the moment I see her. How could I be disappointed about missing a shower when I get to see this?
She’s rolled on her side, kicking at the crib rails, with a cheeky smile in place. Her curls are a frayed heap on top of her head, and somehow, she has maneuvered one arm out of her sleep sack, now fashioning a toga look. A beautiful little mess.
I scoop her up, nurse her, change her, and kiss every squishy part of her I can reach. And by the time she’s ready for the morning, I have maybe, maybe, ten minutes left.
“Why is it always like this?” I coo at her. Her round cheeks scrunch, and her button nose crinkles as she erupts into a laugh that melts every irritation. I breathe her in, kissing every soft spot again until I finally, reluctantly, take her downstairs to Cindy.
She’s showing Steven where the boys’ lunchboxes are and what to pack. He’s listening intently and taking notes.