Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Declan
Sleep evades me. I’m not surprised.
I’ve found little respite in sleep since my first conversation with Evie, let alone the last week of fretting.
There is a sense of peace, or maybe completion, to put it dramatically, that floats around the edges of my bleary-eyed consciousness.
It is directly related to the baby sleeping upstairs, to the bibs in a neat stack next to his highchair in the kitchen, and Evie’s rain jacket hung on the hook by the front door.
To the woman sleeping in my bed.
I may have spent a little too long thinking about that—about her in my room, in my bed. It doesn’t matter. It isn’t even symbolic. It’s simply the most logical place for her.
But damn if it doesn’t hit me right in the gut. Somehow, it makes sleeping on the couch feel all the more wrong, and not because it’s slightly too short for me, or because my back aches this morning.
It’s because I should be with her.
And yes, I want to be with her, there’s no denying that. But I also want…
Well. It doesn’t matter, does it?
Once the sun rises, I slip out for a run.
I’m restless and I have little hope of sleeping tonight if I don’t push my body.
The house is quiet when I return, and since I did, in fact push myself fairly hard, I shrug out of the shirt I’ve sweat through and toss it into the laundry room.
I didn’t move my shampoo and soap out of the en-suite bathroom, so I’ll need to wait for a full shower until Evie and Charlie are up.
Even the other bath is a no-go since it’s full of Charlie’s baby stuff.
For now, I towel off in the half bath connected to the laundry room, then head for coffee.
Facing the back yard, I stand at the kitchen counter and take in the mountain currently glowing with sunlight on deep green pines and gray rock.
There’s yellowing grass by this point in the summer, too, but it’s all part of my favorite scene.
I missed these mountains and all they contain while I was on active duty.
I got a taste of mountains in Europe, but they weren’t right here like they are here. At home.
“Oh, no.”
The words come out like a regretful moan. I turn with a burst of adrenaline at hearing Evie’s voice and the alarm in it.
“What is it?” I take her in, frantic to know if Charlie has worsened overnight. I didn’t hear her up with him, and I was certain I would’ve, but could I have missed it? Did I doze off without realizing?
She’s holding Charlie, who has his head resting on her shoulder and looks painfully sweet in his little footie pajamas.
She looks exhausted, though a touch improved since last night.
I’m relieved to see she’s changed out of whatever she wore to bed last night.
The valiant effort I made to keep my eyes on her face and let them roam nowhere else would’ve been nearly impossible now.
Because her eyes are not on my face. And there’s a stricken expression pulling at her mouth like she’s in pain as her gaze slides from my shoulders and down my chest, past my running shorts and all the way to my feet, where I’m still wearing my running shoes.
“You’re—I’m—”
Charlie grins and since seeing me, has started shifting in Evie’s hold. She lets him down and he toddle-runs right to me. I scoop him up, glad I toweled off so at least I’m not still actively sweaty.
“How are you this morning, Charlie? Any better?” His eyes have improved—clear focus, no bright cheeks from fever. He certainly has more energy than he had yesterday.
“Okay, Dec.” He pulls back and looks at me, his smile stretching wide and his grin notably more drooly than it was yesterday.
“Is there a new tooth coming in there? Can you let me see?” I open my mouth wide to demonstrate, but without a tongue depressor, I can’t do much.
He smacks his lips, but I can’t see any bulging gums in that quick moment.
“Do you think he’s got a molar coming in?” I turn so I can see Evie, who’s still standing where she was when she set Charlie down.
Her face is almost what I’d call ashen. She’s staring at me and Charlie, but with an expression I can’t decipher.
Is she ill now? Has something happened?
What is wrong here?
She brushes some hair out of her face with a shaking hand and clears her throat. “Yes. I think maybe it’s at least partly due to teeth. At least the fussiness. I…”
“Are you feeling bad?”
She’s so off, and it wouldn’t be a huge surprise if she comes down with what Charlie’s got. I step toward her, but she lunges back.
“No—no. I’m going to go, uh, wash my face. I’ll be back in a few. Okay?”
She doesn’t wait for my reply before she turns and nearly runs upstairs.
Okay, that was odd.
Charlie giggles.
“That’s a nice little sound. Are you laughing at your mama?”
His grin splits his little face wide open. “Mama.”
As much as I’d like to stand here and ponder what just happened and what’s going on with her, I wisely move into the kitchen to get some food in this little belly. He had virtually no appetite yesterday, and I’m hoping maybe this cheery demeanor will also mean he eats.
I get him settled in his highchair and offer him some halved blueberries and sliced strawberries.
He loves nice thick oatmeal, so I make that, plus a scrambled egg.
We also have ingredients for pancakes, if he’d like those, or yogurt.
But so far, he seems delighted by what I’m offering and keeps making yummy sounds.
“How’s he eating?”
Evie reenters the kitchen with a bit more color in her cheeks. I can tell she’s still worn down, but she’s also still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Exponentially so when she’s standing here in my kitchen in her casual clothes and slippers like she belongs here.
She does.
They both do.
“He gobbled up an egg, most of the fruit I gave him, and he’s onto the oatmeal. So far, so good.” I can’t help the small smile that lifts my cheeks.
She answers this news with a lovely, heart-flipping grin and bends so she’s at eye level with Charlie. “Are you feeling better, Charlie-bear?”
I linger a few more minutes, scrambling some more eggs and toasting an English muffin for her. When I set the food in front of her, she’s genuinely taken aback.
“You didn’t have to make me breakfast.”
It’s almost accusatory, like I’ve done something wrong by doubling the number of eggs and adding a sliced, store-bought bread item.
“I’m happy to.”
At some point, she’s going to have to realize that I mean this. I’m happy she’s here. Happy she’s sleeping in my bed, using my space. Elated her son is sleeping in my guest room, and hopefully will try out the swing set out back if he’s truly feeling better.
This reminds me. “Do you mind if I run up and get my things out of your shower?”
“It’s your shower, Declan.”
We lock eyes, our gazes meeting for almost the first time since she walked in this morning.
“Do you mind?” I ask, making clear I’m not going to start this argument again.
“Of course not.”
Her brow is furrowed enough I know something’s bothering her, but she’s also closed off this morning, and she won’t even look me in the eye now.
I won’t push.
For now.
“Great. Then, if you’re both okay here, I’ll go shower. I’ve got a meeting to get to in about thirty minutes.”
She thanks me profusely, reminding me yet again where I stand. I’m her friend, I think, but I’m also the man doing her a favor. I’m helping her.
I don’t want to admit that it’s killing me, but I fear it might be. It’s been all of one night, and there’s a level of agony I didn’t anticipate. I can help with Charlie, make his food, help in small ways. But I can’t hold her, comfort her, hold both of them like they’re mine.
And then she’ll thank me for doing only the most basic, decent of tasks as though she owes me. As though I’m doing it out of duty and not because I cannot stop myself from doing at least something. I am compelled by them both.
This time, I want to help. I’ve volunteered. I’ve raised my hand in tribute and avoided being used without my knowledge. But having it be always only this…
It is gutting me.
So I let myself dream a little for a momentary reprieve. It’s the repeated exposure. The practice. The way I’ll heal, too, isn’t it?
What would she do if I told her? What if I made it perfectly clear that I don’t want any more thanks, I only want her?