Chapter 33
Chapter thirty-three
Emma
“How are you not sobbing right now?” Shayna whimpers at me, pulling Sawyer tighter into her side.
We’re sprawled out in the living room, watching Tarzan in the middle of the day.
The boys are wedged between their aunts and cousins on the massive sectional.
Me, Tamara, and Eli—India’s oldest, at sixteen—are camped out on the orange shag carpet Tom is weirdly obsessed with.
My head rests against Donna’s knee, who is snoring softly in her brown recliner.
She’s had a good day so far, not fully lucid, but content enough to let the kids entertain her.
Steven and his dad skipped the movie, which is honestly for the best. It’s giving Tom a chance to do something other than take care of Donna and giving Steven the chance to steer the ship.
Whether it’s driving the truck, deciding where they’re eating, or simply which animals to feed first, Steven will get to make the decisions and regain some sense of control on his routine.
His dad will let him do just about anything to avoid conflict.
And after yesterday, Steven’s been a wound-up ball of irritation.
If someone so much as sneezes too loud, he bristles.
So doing farm chores with Dad seemed like the best option to get it worked out.
It’s all too much, though. Too familiar. Normally, I wouldn’t mind missing the movie for some alone time or cleaning up around the house for Tom. But not this time.
The last thing I want is to run into Steven in the hallway. Or worse, to stupidly hope he’ll come find me and go back to Last Week Steven.
On screen, baby Tarzan gets swept away from the jaguar and into his new mother’s arms. Tamara sniffles beside me. This scene used to wreck me—the entire movie did. After I became a mother, everything did, really. Movies, dog commercials, spilled coffee, a missing sock. Small things felt enormous.
I’d love to blame hormones, but it’s really because being a mom is so achingly beautiful it splits you open.
Everything you feel is at its tipping point at all times, and it makes it impossible to hold yourself together.
Lately, though, that beautiful mix of emotions has twisted into something sharp.
I was soft and sensitive before; now I’m on edge.
My joy and anxiety now walk hand in hand, neither willing to let go.
“Who wants popcorn?” Jay asks as she scoots off the couch. Easton pauses the movie and scrambles after her.
I check the baby monitor. Josie’s still asleep, but we’re past nursing time. The realization hits like it always does, a burning rubber band pulling taut across my chest. I wince and fold an arm across myself.
Josie is almost five months; you would think I’d have this feeding thing down to a science.
Still, I check the time, the monitor, the time again, painstakingly calculating her feeds, her diapers, her moods, everything that can impact the rest of the day.
If I wake her now, she’ll be cranky. If I don’t wake her, she’ll still be cranky.
It’s a lose-lose.
I groan and haul myself off the carpet. “I’ll be back.”
Tamara, ever the saint and mom of five, says, “I’ll give her a bottle if you pump it.” She offers a lopsided, knowing smile that instantly loosens the tension between my ribs.
I shoot her a grateful look and slip into the guest bathroom down the hall. My pump supplies are stashed in the closet, away from the chaos of the family bathrooms upstairs.
Once I’m set up, it dawns on me how depressing it is that this counts as a break for me.
A moment to myself, attached to tiny suction robots.
I look at myself in the mirror, and I don’t know if it’s the dark circles, the spit-up stain from breakfast, or the days-old makeup smudged across my eyelids shining back at me, but I burst into a fit.
A gasping, teary, hysterical fit. I chortle and heave and cry and chortle again.
It definitely sounds like I’m being tickled to death inside this bubblegum-pink bathroom.
By the time I manage to breathe, my face is a shade darker, and my stomach hurts.
Still wearing the pumps, I straighten my ponytail, wipe under my eyes, and inhale the deepest breath I can manage.
When I open the door, Jay is standing there.
“I thought you were dying,” she says dryly.
“Sorry.” I grin uncomfortably.
She double squeezes my arm—the same, encouraging way her mom used to—a wordless reminder that whatever it is, it’s going to be okay.
“Come on,” she says, looping an arm around my waist. “Let’s do lunch.” She leads me into the kitchen. The movie is playing again, with some of the kids now outside, screaming over a game of freeze tag.
“So…” Jay says, pulling out bread and turning on the stove. “Are we going to talk about it?”
“About what?” Ignorance was never a good look on me, and by the way her eyebrow arches, she agrees. But I don’t say anything else, turning to shove the bread into the toaster.
“Do I have to pry it out of you, Jones?” she grumbles, dropping a scandalous amount of butter into the skillet. The steam crackles and screams in agreement.
I shrug, and she swats at me with the kitchen towel. I hold up two different cheese options, and she points to the cheddar.
We fall into a two-person assembly line, making enough grilled cheese to feed an army.
She doesn’t press, but I can feel her practically vibrating with curiosity.
Curious about Steven, about us, our future.
She’s dying to talk about it. Everyone is.
The Jones family doesn’t understand privacy, which has never bothered me in the past. I wasn’t ever one to hide who I am.
And they’ve accepted me, made space for all of me, even the anxious parts.
“How’s the new job?” she asks flatly, a poor attempt at redirection.
“Just ask me, Jay.”
Hesitation flickers across her face as a sandwich starts to burn.
“Shoot,” she hisses, flipping it sloppily. Once it’s charred beyond repair, she slides it onto its own plate and tries again. “How’s he doing? How are you doing?”
The question of the month. And I still don’t have an answer.
“He’s okay.” My tone is the least convincing it could be, and Jay tsks in response.
“Fine. I don’t know how he is. I thought he was handling things as well as one could, given the circumstances.
But then we got here, and I was worried about coming.
You were too.” She nods in agreement, flipping the sandwich.
“And I can see him retreating. He’s angry—rightfully so—but I don’t know how to approach it.
I hate not knowing how to help him.” I shove a whole slice of cheese into my mouth.
“I shouldn’t expect things to be perfect, but I just…
”—my words muffle around the chewing—“I hoped it’d be okay. ”
Jay plops the final sandwich onto the pile before she clicks off the stove and faces me fully. Her eyes are every bit as empathetic and understanding as one’s could be when she says, “Honestly…and I hate to say this, but I’m not surprised.”
I don’t get a chance to dissect this because Steven and his dad come barreling through the back door with their arms full of grocery bags.
“Told ya,” Steven says at the same time his dad grumbles, “Don’t make me do that again.”
Tom unloads his arms, grimacing. He rubs the plastic-bag indentations off his forearms and shuffles into the living room. Jay follows with the tower of sandwiches.
“Hi,” Steven says, kissing me stiffly on the forehead.
I force a smile as unease bubbles inside me. Being around him doesn’t feel as good as it did yesterday, and I hate how fickle my feelings for him can be. We start unpacking the groceries in silence, and Steven instructs me on where everything goes as if I haven’t been here countless times before.
“No, not that!” he snaps, lunging for the last bag in my hands. “That’s for the party,” he mutters, tossing it on top of the fridge.
Then it gets awkward. I bump into him, he tries to step out of the way but steps into me, and we end up circling each other in that weird way that makes you want to pull your hair out. Anyone watching us right now would never guess we’re married.
“Sorry…” I say.
He doesn’t acknowledge it as he begins to unload the dishwasher. His forearms flex and twist as he moves the glasses to the cabinet. His skin is scuffed up from hauling bales of hay, his shoes are caked with dirt, and his face is a mask of exhaustion.
As he continues to busy himself, barely speaking to me, a zap of dread shoots through me, beating behind my ribs. I whip around and grip the counter feeling the immediate need to count my breaths.
It’s my fault. Everything is my fault.
“You alright?” Steven asks behind me. He’s closer now, and I feel his breath brush against the side of my cheek. My eyes threaten to flutter shut at the familiar pull that comes over me to lean into him. The desire seeps through me like honey. Slow, sweet, and nearly impossible to shake off.
When I don’t respond, he tries again. “Em?”
“Yes?” I don’t turn around. My clammy palms slip against the granite.
“What are you doing?”
“I just need a minute, Steven.” I hate myself instantly for how his name comes out. Like saying it disgusts me. But it doesn’t. He doesn’t. I pinch my eyes shut, and the silence that lingers sends a cold chill down my spine.
“Did I do something?”
The pain in his voice stings behind my eyes. I hate that I put it there. That I’m the reason he sounds anything but happy.
“Is this how it is now?” His voice is low now, sharp. “Do we whisper-fight in the kitchen over nothing all the time?”
“What?” I spin around.
“Do you not want to be with me anymore?” The question cracks in his throat.
“I never said—”
“Emma…” He lets out a rough laugh, irritation ticking his jaw. “I may have lost some things, but I’m not an idiot.”
“What are you talking about?” I force my voice low.
He laughs again, bitter this time. The sound is too familiar, and the room starts to spin. Please don’t let this be happening.
“I didn’t—I didn’t say that,” I stammer, my resolve slipping from my grasp. What happened while he was gone?
“Are you angry with me or something?” I drop my eyes, too scared to meet his.
He exhales sharply, and it’s confirmation enough. He’s angry at me. I shouldn’t have made him come. This is my fault.
My chest starts to burn, and my stomach roils, the monster now fully awake. It rages slowly, sending a prickling down my spine and to my limbs. My mind begins to race. The world gets louder and slower all at once. My knees wobble. I need my medicine. Steven reaches for me, but I flinch.
“Emma, let me help you.”
“Please don’t.” My voice cracks like glass as his question echoes painfully loud in my head. Is this how it is now?
“Emma, breathe,” he instructs, trying to fix the problem again.
“I don’t need your help, Steven.”
His hand falls away from where he was reaching for me. His jaw clenches so tight I can see the muscle pulse. Without another word, he snatches the keys off the counter and storms out the back door.
As soon as he’s gone, I deflate. My head spins and it takes me a long time to walk back into the living room where I collapse next to Shayna.
She shifts, making room, and Easton crawls into my lap.
The smell of his Spider-Man shampoo settles my nerves.
Not fully gone, just quietly curled up in my chest, lingering.
Easton’s heart beats softly against my ear. Lub dub. Lub dub. I focus on the rhythm, matching my breathing to his.
We make it to the scene where Kerchak sacrifices himself to save Tarzan. And though we’ve all seen it a dozen times, the living room stills.
“See?” Jay whispers, nudging my shoulder.
“Hmm?” I murmur over Easton’s sleeping head.
“It’s heartbreaking,” she whimpers, pointing to my face.
I reach up and find tears—real ones—running down my cheeks.
“I knew it would make you cry,” Shayna adds.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I guess so.”
But I keep watching the screen, letting the tears fall freely, letting the emotion of everything move through me because fighting it hurts worse.
And while everyone else is moved by the movie, my tears aren’t for Tarzan or the gorilla.
They’re for the sinking realization settling heavy in my stomach.
They’re for the truth I’ve been trying to run from. The truth I selfishly thought memory loss could fix.
My marriage is falling apart.