Chapter 12 Amelia
Amelia
Isaac is sprawled across my lap like a boneless cat, one hand shoved into a bag of goldfish crackers while his eyes track the bright colors dancing across the TV screen.
Riley is on the floor in front of the couch, propped up on her elbows with her chin in her hands, completely absorbed in whatever animated adventure is unfolding.
The living room smells like the grilled cheese sandwiches we demolished for lunch, mixed with the faint scent of the lavender cleaner I used on the kitchen counters this morning.
I've been cleaning since seven this morning when I arrived, working through the house room by room with a kind of manic energy I couldn't quite explain.
Scrubbing counters that were already mostly clean, organizing cabinets that didn't really need it, folding and refolding the blankets in the living room until every edge was perfect.
My hands needed to be busy, my mind needed the distraction, and taking care of their house felt like the least I could do after the disaster that was dinner two nights ago.
I still can't think about it without my face burning with shame.
Dropping to the floor like that, hiding under the table while everyone watched, completely falling apart over a broken glass.
Wyatt had texted me that night to make sure I was okay, and then again the next morning to confirm I was still coming to work.
I'd apologized in the message, a long rambling explanation that he'd cut off with a simple reply: You have nothing to apologize for. See you tomorrow.
But I'd apologized anyway when I showed up yesterday morning.
And then again this morning when I walked through the door at six forty-five, fifteen minutes early because I couldn't stand the thought of being even a second late.
Wyatt had laughed, actually laughed, before pulling me into a quick hug that made my heart stutter in my chest.
"Amelia, seriously. It's fine. We're fine. You're fine. Stop apologizing or I'm going to start charging you a quarter every time you say sorry."
I'd managed to keep my apologies to myself after that, though the urge to say it again kept bubbling up throughout the morning. Instead, I channeled all that anxious energy into making their house shine, scrubbing away my embarrassment one surface at a time.
Around eleven, Riley had found me reorganizing the pantry, standing on a step stool to reach the top shelves. She'd planted herself in the doorway with her hands on her hips, looking so much like a tiny disapproving adult that I'd nearly laughed.
"Miss Amelia, you're working too hard," she'd announced with the kind of authority that only a six-year-old can pull off. "Dad says you need to take a break and come watch cartoons with us. Isaac is getting sad because you keep saying you're busy."
The idea of Isaac being sad because I wasn't sitting with him had been enough to make me abandon my color-coded reorganization system immediately. I'd followed Riley into the living room to find Isaac on the couch with his bottom lip stuck out in the most devastating pout I'd ever seen.
"You don't want to sit with me?" he'd asked, his hazel-green eyes huge and wounded.
My heart had cracked right down the middle. "Of course I want to sit with you, sweetheart. Come here."
He'd launched himself at me the second I sat down, burrowing into my lap with the kind of complete trust that still takes my breath away. Riley had settled on the floor, and we'd been here ever since, watching back-to-back episodes of some show about talking animals who solve mysteries.
It's lazy and comfortable in a way I haven't felt in years.
There's no tension in my shoulders, no constant scanning for threats, no hyperawareness of every sound and movement.
Just me and two kids and terrible Saturday morning cartoons, the kind of ordinary moment that feels extraordinary because I never thought I'd have this again.
Isaac shifts in my lap, tilting his head back to look up at me. "Are you happy, Miss Amelia?"
The question catches me off guard, so simple and direct the way only children can be. I brush my fingers through his curly hair, smoothing down the pieces that are sticking up. "Yeah, sweetheart. I'm happy. Are you?"
He nods emphatically, his curls bouncing with the movement. "Uh-huh. You make really good grilled cheese. And you don't yell when I spill things."
The casual way he says it, like not yelling when he spills is some kind of extraordinary gift, makes my chest ache.
I think about what it must have been like for these kids, losing their mother and then having a string of people come through their lives who didn't really care about them, who saw them as obstacles instead of the incredible little humans they are.
"I'll never yell at you for spilling things," I promise quietly. "Accidents happen. That's why we have paper towels."
He grins at me, gap-toothed and beautiful, before turning his attention back to the TV. But his hand finds mine, his small fingers wrapping around my thumb, holding on.
The sound of footsteps on the stairs makes me look up.
Silas appears, his dark hair still damp from a shower, wearing jeans and a plain t-shirt instead of his usual work clothes.
He's got his glasses on, the black frames making him look both softer and somehow more serious at the same time.
His rain scent drifts across the room, fresh and clean.
"There's my crew," he says with a smile that transforms his entire face, erasing some of the exhaustion that's usually carved into his features. "What are we watching?"
"Talking dogs," Riley supplies without taking her eyes off the screen. "They're detectives."
"Sounds very educational," Silas says solemnly, though there's amusement dancing in his dark brown eyes.
He crosses the room and drops onto the couch beside me, close enough that his thigh presses against mine.
The casual intimacy of it makes my breath catch, but I don't move away. "You've been cleaning all morning."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "The house needed it."
"The house was fine," he corrects gently. "You needed to keep your hands busy."
I don't have a good response to that because he's absolutely right. Silas seems to understand, though, because he doesn't push. Instead, he reaches over and rests his hand on top of mine where it's still being held captive by Isaac's small fingers, his touch warm and grounding.
We sit like that for a while, watching cartoon dogs solve crimes while Isaac provides running commentary on everything happening on screen.
Riley laughs at something one of the characters does, the sound bright and genuine, and I feel Silas relax beside me, some of the tension bleeding out of his shoulders.
When the episode ends, Silas shifts forward, reaching for the remote to pause the next one before it can start. "I have a proposition," he announces to the room at large.
Isaac perks up immediately. "What kind of proposition?"
"The kind that involves getting outside on this beautiful Saturday instead of spending it all on the couch," Silas says, ruffling Isaac's hair. "How do you guys feel about going on a hike?"
"Yes!" Riley scrambles to her feet, already bouncing with excitement. "Can we go to the one with the waterfall? Please?"
"I want to see the waterfall too," Isaac adds, wiggling in my lap. "Miss Amelia, have you ever seen a waterfall?"
I have, though the memories attached to them aren't particularly pleasant.
Vincent had taken me on a hike once, early in our relationship when he was still pretending to be someone worth loving.
He'd been in a good mood that day, charming and attentive, and I'd thought maybe things were getting better.
But on the way back down the trail, I'd twisted my ankle on a root I hadn't seen.
He'd been furious, raging about how I'd ruined the day, how I never paid attention, how he couldn't take me anywhere without me embarrassing him.
He'd made me walk the entire way back to the car on my injured ankle, refusing to let me lean on him or slow down, telling me I needed to learn to be more careful.
I'd limped for a week afterward, too afraid to go to a doctor because I'd have to explain what happened.
But I can't tell Isaac that. I can't let my past poison this moment, these kids, this chance at something better. I push the memory down deep where it can't touch me and smile at Isaac instead. "I haven't seen one in a long time. I'd love to go."
Silas catches my eye, something knowing in his expression, like he can read the hesitation I'm trying to hide. "You sure? If you'd rather stay here and rest, that's fine too. You've been working hard all morning."
The offer is genuine, I can tell. He'd let me stay behind without judgment, without making me feel guilty for it.
But the kids are looking at me with such hopeful expressions, and the idea of staying behind in the empty house while they go off and have fun makes my chest tight with a different kind of anxiety.
"I'm sure," I say, and I mostly mean it. "Just let me grab my shoes."
Twenty minutes later, we're piling into Silas' SUV, the kids buckled into their car seats in the back while I slide into the passenger seat.
Wyatt emerges from the house as Silas is starting the engine, jogging over to tap on the driver's side window.
Silas rolls it down, eyebrows raised in question.
"Where are you guys going?" Wyatt asks, leaning against the door frame. He's wearing running shorts and a tank top, his blond-brown curls pushed back with a headband, clearly just back from a run based on the sheen of sweat on his skin.
"Hiking," Silas says. "Want to come?"
"Give me five minutes to change." Wyatt disappears back into the house before Silas can respond.