AUSTIN
THIRTY-THREE
The ride home is quiet, all three children soundly sleeping in the back seat of my truck.
The Gladiators put on a show, securing the victory after a huge six-run inning to end the game.
The fireworks display was one of the best I’ve ever seen, the entire stadium filling with oohs and ahhs while beautiful colors exploded over the moonlit Cleveland skyline.
But even with all the claps, cheers, and happiness around me, I couldn’t help but notice the way Paris’ demeanor changed after she returned from her trip to the restroom.
My instinct was to address it right away—to get to the root of her sadness and make it all better.
As difficult as it was, I held back, since I have a sneaking suspicion that it has to do with the kids’ dad.
It was completely fucked of him to ignore them the way he did, and I know that couldn’t have been easy for her to witness.
Even though I’m aware of what’s caused her to deflate, which is a very valid reaction, I just can’t shake the feeling that there’s more going on in her head than meets the eye.
She doesn’t say much as we head toward the outskirts of the city, just one-word answers despite my attempts to make small talk.
She allows me to encase her hand in mine on the center console, but keeps her gaze pointed out the window as soft, despondent sighs fog up the glass every few minutes.
I hate seeing her like this, shoulders slumped, eyes dull and distant.
It feels like she’s a million miles away, sitting right here next to me.
I pull into her driveway and kill the engine, reluctantly breaking the only connection we have at the moment before opening my door.
She does the same, exiting the truck and immediately going for the back seat.
Rowan is on the passenger side with Lennon’s car seat in the middle, and Rhys is to her left in his booster.
All three are still out cold, their little bodies no match against the effects of a late and eventful night.
Paris gently wakes her oldest and helps him out of the vehicle while I pull open the door behind me, opting to let his younger brother sleep.
She doesn’t even look at me as we unbuckle the two slumbering children and lift them into our arms, carrying them up the walkway with Rowan’s tired feet dragging along the stone beside us.
We’re inside just moments later, ascending the stairs toward the bedrooms as quietly as possible.
I follow Rowan into the room he shares with Rhys, watching as he turns on the sound machine, sluggishly climbs under the covers, and yanks them up to his chin.
Thankfully, they dressed comfy today, because there’s not a chance in hell either of them would have the energy for pajamas right now.
I’m sure this was by design, since Paris is always thinking ahead when it comes to her kids.
She’s the best mom in the whole fucking world. I really hope she knows that.
White noise hums throughout the darkened room, and I pull Rhys’ comforter back before carefully lowering him onto the mattress.
He stirs for a moment, a tiny, barely audible groan rolling up his chest before he settles.
I cover him up, making sure they’re both resting comfortably, then tiptoe across the carpet and shut the door behind me.
My eyes immediately catch on Paris as she exits the nursery, Lennon’s musical mobile playing soft lullabies that fade the moment she’s closed inside.
The air between us is thick with something I can’t put my finger on, her dull gaze flickering up to mine briefly before finding a spot on the wall behind me.
I want to ask her what’s wrong, but a small voice in the back of my mind is telling me that, this time, it truly is none of my business.
We might be seeing each other surreptitiously until she’s ready for more, but prying into her relationship with Braxton may be a bit of an overstep.
“Thank you for your help,” she says, the ghost of a fake smile pulling at one corner of her mouth before it drops.
“I’ll call you tomorrow.” The hurried kiss she presses to my lips is detached and passionless, unlike our normal interactions the moment we’re sure nobody can see us.
That’s when I know I can’t leave things like this.
At the very least, she needs to know I’m here in whatever ways she needs me to be.
“You okay?” I ask. “If you want to talk, I’m a great listener. And if you don’t, I can make you some tea or play with your hair until you fall asleep. Whatever you need, I’ll do it.”
She shakes her head, her eyes still not affixing to mine for more than a split second. “I’m fine. Just overstimulated and tired. It’s way past my bedtime.”
My stomach churns, unease plucking at my nerves as I nod.
Maybe she really does just need a bit of rest, then we can sort things out in the morning.
This isn’t something I’ve ever experienced before—dating someone who’s had children with another man—and I don’t know the etiquette.
On one hand, this is my girl, and she’s hurting.
But on the other, I’m not sure I’ve earned the right to be a part of this.
For once, I feel like it’s something I can’t fix—at least not until she lets me in.
And judging by the way she’s reluctant to even look at me right now, I’d say we’re not there yet.
“Alright, baby,” I reply softly. Unwilling to leave without a real, substantial kiss, I step in, taking her face in my palms and tilting it up.
I dip down, ever so gently pressing my lips to hers.
Some of the tension in her body melts, a weak sigh leaking from her lungs.
I don’t deepen the connection, lingering for a moment so she can feel all the things I’m not saying.
Backing away, I hold her face so that she has no choice but to finally give me the regard I’m dying for.
Her deep brown eyes lock onto mine, a shaky breath filling the air between us.
“Call me if you need anything,” I tell her.
“I don’t care if it’s three in the morning and you just want a hug.
I’ll be here in no time, okay? You’re not alone. ”
“Thank you,” she whispers, easing some of the anxiety that sits heavy in the pit of my stomach when she pulls me down for another tender kiss.
I revel in it, inhaling her scent and letting it wrap around me like a blanket as her pillowy lips caress mine.
It’s over sooner than I’d like, but I’m happy she gave me a flicker of hope that, even though it was a rough night, we’re going to be okay.
I’ll give her some time to sort through her emotions, then we’ll figure out the rest when she’s feeling better.
But, no matter what, I’m here for the long haul.
We say our goodbyes, and I watch as she disappears into her room before turning on my heel and heading down the stairs.
Every fiber of my being is begging me not to go, but I ignore the instinct, telling myself that we’ll talk tomorrow.
My feet feel like two bricks weighing me down, my heart twisting more the further I get away from her.
It’s only when I reach the entryway that a familiar brown heap on the floor in the corner has me stopping abruptly, my eyes narrowing as I focus in on it.
Lennon’s bunny. The one she can’t sleep without.
I quickly bend down and pick it up, staying light on my feet as I climb back up the staircase.
Somehow, I manage to pad through the nursery and lower the stuffed animal into the crib without making any noise, a soft smile breaking free when I see how peacefully the little angel is sleeping.
The electronic mobile above casts a gentle light over her face, her pouty lips parted as her chest rises and falls steadily.
I’m so hopelessly in love with her and her brothers. How could anybody not be?
How could he not be, when I’d give anything to make them mine?
Taking her in for one more second, I make a silent promise to never hurt them.
I can’t replace their father, but I can definitely show them what it feels like to be cared for and supported by someone who’d die if it meant they wouldn’t feel an ounce of pain.
I’ll protect them with everything I have and make sure they know how incredibly loved they are.
That goes for their mother, too. She’ll never have to wonder if I’m happy where I am because I’ll tell her every day that my life is exponentially better with them in it.
“Good night, Princess,” I mumble, discreetly making my way into the hall and pulling the door shut behind me. The entire house is quiet, save for the muffled hum of the boys’ sound machine and Lennon’s lullabies. But when I hear a soft sob in the distance, I’m immediately on high alert.
I’m frozen where I stand, my brows pulling tight in concentration, wondering if maybe I’ve made it up. But when it happens again, a grief-stricken cry coming from Paris’ room, my feet are moving before my brain has a chance to react.
My heart pounds wildly against my rib cage, all rationality flying right out the window as I reach out and twist the knob, entering a space I definitely wasn’t invited into with zero regard for the consequences.
And when I take in the scene in front of me, I’m not sure if I want to drop to my knees and beg the universe to help me fix it or burn the entire city to the ground in search of the source.
Paris looks up from where she’s sitting on the edge of her bed, a bath robe wrapped around her small, trembling frame.
Steam begins to billow from the en suite bathroom, the sound of her running shower echoing off the walls.
The room is fairly dark, but I don’t miss the moisture that soaks her cheeks or the way her eyes are rimmed in red as she looks up at me with confusion written across her expression.
“Austin,” she chokes out, batting the tears away quickly. “What are you doing?”