Chapter 26
Chapter twenty-six
Emma
You never forget your firsts.
Isn’t that what they say? Your first kiss, first failure, your first love.
Some are integral to who you are as a person, and some are just plain weird.
I remember my first diaper experience. Sawyer, at two in the morning, changing him with no wipes within arm’s reach.
A first I can’t forget. No matter how hard I’ve tried.
But my first day as an art teacher? I can’t remember it. Not fully, anyway. And that vacant memory nearly distracts me from helping Mackenzie settle in.
“What’s in here?” she asks, opening the back closet in the art room.
“Extra supplies.” I shake my head, trying to focus against the fog lingering. “Safety equipment, basic stuff.”
“Safety equipment?” She peers into the closet cautiously. “What for?”
“The students are really into creative freedom around here,” I say, smiling. “Just as a precaution.”
She follows my gaze to the corner stacked with hammers, mallets, and chisels, her eyes widening at the sheer number of options. Her résumé said she was proficient in paint and sketch work, so I’m guessing this kind of mixed media is new territory for her.
“That’s…a lot.”
“It can be,” I say. “But this is your class for now. Use whatever feels right, and don’t worry about the rest.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Jones.”
I can’t fight the smile as I hear my name and the echo of Steven saying it last night. Heat builds low in my belly, moving down my legs and threatening to distract me even more.
“Very well, then.” I tug at the collar of my shirt, desperate for cool air. “Do you think you’ll be okay the rest of the day?”
“Yes, yes. I’m great.” She gazes down at the line of paintbrushes stacked in cups, tracing her fingers along the bristles. “Thank you for taking the time. I’m sure it wasn’t easy leaving your husband.”
“It’s no problem,” I reassure her.
“How is he doing?” she asks as we make our way down the hall.
“He’s good. Small improvements here and there, but he seems optimistic.”
“And you? Are you optimistic?”
“Yes,” I answer too fast, likely not sounding believable. “I think so.”
“I couldn’t imagine,” she whispers as we step into the breakroom. “This must be so hard on you too. I know it’s not my place, and you have a great support system, but…” She fidgets with the gold ring on her thumb, twisting it over and over. “If you ever need someone to talk to, I’m here.”
“Thank you.” I smile as she squeezes my elbow.
“I hope he gets them back.”
“Me too,” I say quietly, but it sounds more like a question. Like I’m asking myself.
Do I want his memory to come back?
The kids need their dad, all of him. And Steven needs all of himself back.
But last night rushes through me, a fervor that tingles all the way to my toes.
The memory of his dark skin against our gray sheets.
The weight of his callused hands, familiar and claiming, reminding me who we are to each other.
I felt alive for the first time in years.
I finally felt like I was with my husband the way I was meant to be, the way I was made to be.
We’re having fun again. But will this blissful bubble pop when everything comes back?
And if it does…will we still find our way back to each other?
I open my mouth to share all of this, feeling obligated to share them with someone. But Mackenzie doesn’t say anything else as she smiles, leaving me to sift through it on my own.
I type out a text to Dr. Belo as the harsh reality looms over me—a dark cloud of confliction, conflicted on my hopes, conflicted on my marriage, and clearly conflicted on my morality.
What kind of person would want their husband’s memory to stay lost? What kind of monster am I? Monster. It’s a quick stab to my heart as my text swooshes away.
Me: I think we should talk soon.
Dr. Belo: Without Steven?
Me: Definitely without him.
Dr. Belo: I’ll see you at 4.
“Principal Jones,” a timid voice calls from the hallway.
I turn to find Sarah Kim hovering there, glancing at me and then quickly down the hall, like she’s afraid of being caught.
She tugs at the sleeves of her trademark checkered cardigan, the fabric nearly swallowing her hands, and beneath it she’s wearing a t-shirt printed with the full numerical value of pi.
I smile, extra grateful for this quirky teenager and the much-needed distraction she usually brings.
“Hello, Ms. Kim.”
Once I’m within arm’s reach, she grabs my sleeve and tugs me toward the lockers. “Did you see this?” she hisses, thrusting her phone into my hand.
On the screen is a photo of a grade report.
She watches me closely, a tense line carving itself into her forehead, panic glazing her eyes. I study the image again and spot the number in the top corner—3.95. Her GPA. No longer a perfect 4.0, but still nowhere near enough to knock her out of her valedictorian spot.
“Can you believe this?” she whimpers, covering her face with a hand.
“How did this happen?”
“Geer,” she growls the name, nostrils flaring. If smoke could come out of her ears right now, it would. “He did this.”
“What do you mean?”
“He gave us a pop quiz.” She grinds out the words, as if she’s still trying to convince herself of what happened.
“I see.” I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. Not because I don’t feel for Sarah, but because I know Malcolm did it to test her, and I know full well he’ll give her a chance for extra credit later. But I can’t tell her this. “Have you discussed this with Mr. Geer?”
She scoffs. “Are you kidding me? It’s like talking to a brick wall.”
I laugh despite myself.
“Could you talk to him for me?”
“Ms. Kim…”
“Come on,” she groans. “You’re his boss now. Surely you can fix this.”
I don’t have the energy or, by the looks of my watch, the time to fight her on this. I concede with a sigh, and she immediately wraps me in a hug. She’s aggressively strong for someone her size, pinning my arms to my sides.
“Thank you, thank you.”
The bell rings just as she releases me, tossing her backpack over her shoulder and shuffling toward her next class. And right on cue, Malcolm turns the corner. He doesn’t see Sarah disappear down the hallway, but he has ears like a hawk.
“She bug you too?” he asks, his mischievous grin peeking out from beneath his beard.
“Pop quiz? Really?”
“Have to keep things interesting.” His smile is smug as we head down the hall.
“You’re going to drive the girl mad.”
“She’ll be fine.” He waves me off, his easy grin coming more often lately. I remember when he used to be stone-faced, never showing an ounce of emotion. But ever since he and Kate started dating, there’s been this light about him. An effortless joy that comes when you’re head-over-heels in love.
I hadn’t felt that in a long time. Until last night.
I can still feel Steven’s arms wrapped around my waist, his lips at the nape of my neck, whispering Mrs. Jones over and over.
I haven’t ached for my husband in years, not in the ways I used to, not in that head-over-heels, breathless way.
Somewhere along the line, those feelings slipped behind the weight of kids and jobs, life in general.
I sort of thought the feelings were lost entirely at this point, replaced with the cordial, compassionate kind of feelings you have for someone you’ve built a life with.
My skin hums at the memory of him, the broadness of his chest pressed into mine, our legs tangled together, his hands splayed across my back as if to hold me there forever. I could’ve stayed there forever.
Will I lose this feeling if he gets his memory back?
This dreadful question follows me the rest of my day, all the way to Dr. Belo’s office.
My stomach is knotted into a tight coil, and my chest simmers with the anxiety that seems to never fully cease.
I need to say it out loud, to admit these absurd, selfish thoughts.
To acknowledge them and, quite possibly, be told to take them back to the very person who caused them.
All while trying not to disrupt my family’s peace in the process.
Simple enough.
“We’re supposed to leave tomorrow,” I speak before either of us have sat down. “What if seeing his mom affects his memory? What if it’s too much for him?”
Dr. Belo gestures for me to sit but doesn’t say anything, giving me space to continue.
“And what if there’s a part of me that doesn’t want his old memory to come back?”
“Why would you want that?” she asks, tilting her head.
“I don’t know,” I groan, sinking back into the leather couch. “He’s been nicer lately. More attentive, more intentional. Happier.”
“And you miss that side of him?”
“Of course I do. Seeing him happier makes me happier. And ugh…I miss being happy.”
“Do you think you haven’t been?”
“Not really.”
“I see.” She pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose and scribbles on her yellow pad. I hate when she does that. My anxiety hums louder.
“Do you think happiness can change? What makes you happy or how long it lasts…can that change?”
“Sure. A good romance novel makes me happy now, but five years ago, I wouldn’t have even picked it up. Spider-Man makes Sawyer happy now, but last year it was Bluey.”
“Right. So if what makes us happy can change…is it safe to assume happiness itself can change?”
I look at her, waiting.
“What if happiness…looks different over time? In this season of life, it might even be unrecognizable to you. You might not see it, but that doesn’t mean it’s not there.”
I don’t respond right away. The words settle in a quiet corner of my heart, hooking onto the small moments of joy I’ve been carrying around: the boys laughing in the backyard, Josie smiling in the kitchen, Ellie walking down the aisle to Benny. All of them perfect.
And then there are the moments with Steven.
At first, I have to dig for them, sift through time to find something that feels truly happy.
But once I let myself go there, they flood me like a wave.
Warm, heavy, almost too much to hold. His random texts.
Taking out the trash even when it makes him late to work.
Picking up dinner every Thursday night. His deep brown eyes, always searching for me.
The slight twitch of his hand when I’m near.
The way his gaze dips to my lips every time I say his name, even when he’s mad.
These things aren’t extravagant or soul-stirring. But they do make me happy.
Guilt stings my eyes. All the moments I was too proud to embrace or too angry to notice. I’ve been too scared to disrupt things with my big feelings that I didn’t realize I was holding back my own happiness as well.
“What are you thinking right now?” Dr. Belo watches me carefully, her glasses now perched atop her head.
“That I’m an idiot,” I admit, letting a short, embarrassed laugh escape me. “I’ve been so focused on being quiet or hurt, I haven’t even tried to be happy with him.”
We walk through these feelings. The tiny pockets of joy and the reminders that there’s still so much work to do in my marriage.
Small acts don’t erase the big forgets: the distance, the times he left me to handle the kids while he took mental health days, the work that absorbs him so fully he forgets to check in.
Happiness can exist, but we still have the hard parts.
We need to find balance between the two.
Before I go, Dr. Belo leans forward in her chair, steepling her hands under her chin. “Emma, I know you’re tired. But you’re doing a great job. And I know you’re going to be so focused on Steven and his family this week that you’ll forget half of what we talked about.”
We both laugh.
“But I need you to really think about what we talked about,” she says, her voice soft but equally stern.
“It’s time to move forward, one way or another, and you need to ask yourself…
are these happy moments enough? Can they hold you together if Steven gets his memory back? Or when things get hard again?”
I stare down at my hands, tears pooling before I can stop them.
“I hope so.”