Chapter 28 Emma
Chapter twenty-eight
Emma
“You’re sure this is a good idea?” Jay’s hoarse voice fills the car as the boys climb into their seats.
“Hi, Aunt Jay!”
“Auntie Jay!”
“Babies!” she squeals as the boys tumble over each other to tell her about their day—the new swings at the playground, the worms they found in the dirt, and their big plans to tip a cow at Grandpa’s this week.
“Is that so?” Her Southern drawl slips through on the so, but she pushes forward, not backing down from the pressing issue: Steven traveling. “Emma, I don’t know about this.”
I sigh. There’s no winning. “The doctors cleared him. Liam said it could be helpful. And Steven wants to see your mom.”
“What if it—”
“He needs to see his mom, Jay.” My words come out sharper than I mean.
I can’t let her say it—the fear I’ve been choking down all week.
What if it makes things worse? The boys’ eyes are wide as they watch me in the rearview.
“I’m sorry, Jay. I don’t think we can stop him from coming even if we wanted to. ”
“You’re probably right.” She sighs, and the sound of it is heavy.
The kind of tired that sits in your bones.
Jay moved closer to her parents six months ago, right after Donna took a turn.
Forgetting how to button her own coat. Constantly getting locked out of the house.
Calling 911 in the middle of the night because she didn’t know where she was.
“How are you doing?” I ask as I turn onto our road.
Trees thicken around us, branches arching overhead like they’re building a tunnel just for us. I used to hate this drive, how it felt like it was pressing in on me. But over time, it’s become soothing, a cocoon from the world, a calming breath before I get home.
“I’m fine,” Jay says. “Tired, but we have a better routine with Mom now. And she’s been having more good days lately.” I can hear the wistful smile in her voice, the aching fondness she has for her mother. I feel it too, the love for a woman we’re watching fade right before our eyes.
“Can we get waffles?” Sawyer yells from the backseat.
“We only eat waffles for breakfast,” Easton counters.
“I’ll have waffles ready when you get here,” Jay chimes in.
The boys start to cheer, and I can no longer hear myself think.
“Love you, Em.” Jay laughs.
“See you tomorrow.”
I hang up just as sunlight flickers through the trees, speckling our yard in gold as we pull down the driveway.
A fresh pile of dead leaves—one that wasn’t there this morning—sits by the porch.
The leaf blower, shovel, and rake are propped against the railing.
Did Steven do yardwork? Cindy definitely didn’t.
The boys barrel out of the car and toward the house, dragging their bags and a storm of dirt behind them. The image of mud and sticks streaking my floor flashes through my head, making my skin crawl. I pinch the bridge of my nose and breathe. Add it to the list.
Going out of town always makes me more antsy than it should.
I like coming home to order, to a place of calm after the chaos that always comes when we travel.
Doesn’t everyone? So, instead of packing, I clean, scrubbing the house from top to bottom, then I’m scrambling with luggage the night before.
Which is exactly what’s happened this week. Instead of slowly packing over the last few days, I’ve deep cleaned the kitchen and bathrooms, scrubbed the windowsills, washed our bedding—bedding we aren’t even taking with us. And convincing myself it’s productive.
Because the truth is, I’m busying myself and avoiding reality. Pretending everything is fine. They say ignorance is bliss, and that’s exactly where I am—ignoring our suitcases and the reality that’s awaiting us on the ranch.
With Steven slowly remembering, it seems to be the least of our worries.
The way he looked at me earlier today, when that memory hit him…
I was almost split wide open. Bliss consumed me from the inside out, like it did fifteen years ago.
Having a man like Steven, so sure of himself, so confident in the idea of us that he sprinted across campus just to serenade me?
I couldn’t admit it back then—I was too prideful—but I was done for.
The memory leaves me smiling as I walk into the house. Then I freeze. It’s not the house I left this morning. It smells clean, and relaxing, like fresh mint and herbs. The wood floors are so shiny I can almost see my reflection.
“Hello?” I call, feeling like I’ve stepped into The Twilight Zone. “What has happened to our house?”
Cindy comes down the stairs, with baby Josie squirming in her arms. The moment she sees me, she nearly launches herself at me. I scoop her up and feel every ounce of heaviness strip off of me, like fresh skin. The happy mom skin.
“Hi, baby.” I kiss her all over her face until she giggles then shoves her hands in my mouth.
“Cindy, did you clean?” I manage as Josie fishhooks my jaw.
“No, ma’am.” She grins from ear to ear, and it’s almost mischievous. I arch a brow at her, but she just shimmies her shoulders and heads for the door. “Be safe on your trip. I’ll see you next week. Bye, boys!”
“Bye, Cindy!” the boys yell from the kitchen.
I wave her off, clocking the pile of leaves one more time before I shut the door. The living room is spotless, with the Lego box sitting by the fireplace, sealed tight. The boys sit at the dining room table, already working on their homework, with a bowl of grapes and celery sitting between them.
“Where’s your dad?” I ask.
“He went upstairs,” Easton says without looking up, engrossed in his spelling.
Josie and I make our way up the steps, my eyes temporarily snagging on the two packed totes sitting on the counter. Upstairs, everything is gleaming spotless. The hallway runner’s vacuumed, the bathroom scrubbed, the boys’ duffel bags zipped and ready to go.
The sound of movement comes from the bedroom, and I call out, “Steven?”
He’s standing there with a phone pressed to his ear, folding laundry at record speed. Not just any laundry either—my laundry. My underwear.
I blink once. “What are you doing?”
“I’ll call you later.” He hangs up, setting down a pair of pink lace panties with delicate precision. Then he picks up the gray, embarrassingly unflattering pair I reserve for Sundays and folds those the exact same way. “How was your day?”
“Fine?” I sound unsure. “What is happening right now?”
“I’m folding laundry.” His focus is intense, like this is a life-or-death situation.
“I see that. But…why?
“Do I not fold your laundry?” He scoffs at himself.
“You do,” I say quickly. “But not…my underwear.”
I snort and yank open the top drawer of our dresser, revealing the chaos within. Socks are tangled with underwear, a disarray of fabrics and coverage nearly busting at the seams. “I don’t even fold them.”
“Oh.” He blushes, rubbing the back of his neck. His shirt lifts just enough to show a sliver of tawny, smooth skin. When I finally look back up, he’s smiling at me, shy and a little amused. “Did you have a good day?”
“I did.” I grin, setting Josie on the pile of warm clothes. She squeals, delighted with a rogue sock. “How was yours?”
“Really good, I think. I liked getting to see you.”
That whoosh-in-your-chest feeling hits before I can stop it. “Yeah? Well…good. Great,” I stammer, heat flushing my neck. “What do you want to do for dinner?”
“I made a lasagna.”
“Oh.”
He continues, “Cleaned up a bit; hope that’s okay.
I packed snacks, but you might need to check them.
Got paper plates so we don’t have dishes tonight.
” He says all of this while still folding laundry.
“I packed our stuff and some of yours. All I need to do is get those leaves up, and we should be good to hit the road first thing.”
When the folding is finished, he immediately starts putting the clothes away, and it’s evident he’s unaware the effect this can have on a woman.
As he’s finding the clothing’s rightful place, he keeps talking.
Now about his sisters and their party plans, about helping his dad with the barn, and how he wants to buy his mom something for her birthday.
His words come like he’s listing off his shopping list. Nonchalant. Matter-of-factly.
And I can’t stop smiling.
“What?” he asks, catching my look. “What’d I say?”
“N–nothing.” My voice cracks under the weight of it all.
The joy, the hope, the dread…they all squeeze my throat.
Because here he is. The man I fell in love with.
The man who checked off lists effortlessly.
The joy and hope that comes with having him here again.
And the dread that he’s starting to remember, and the very real possibility that it could wipe this side of him away all over again.
I end up still needing to spend the evening packing.
Young Steven didn’t know how many diapers and bottles we truly need for a four-month-old.
When the kids are asleep and the car is finally loaded, I plop down on the couch.
My eyes are strained from the day, but my Kindle calls to me from the coffee table.
Steven sits next to me, handing me a cup of peppermint tea and the Kindle without a word. He settles in, with two photo albums on his lap, and a book of brain teaser questions.
“Is that your homework?” I laugh.
“Just light reading.” He smiles back, but it falls flat, the blaring truth staring up at him. I can’t count how many times he’s gone through those photos. And it makes the selfish pit in my stomach burn with guilt. He deserves to remember, even if it means remembering the hard things too.
“Do you want help?”