Chapter 20
CHAPTER
TWENTY
Elliott
Ialmost kissed her.
Almost, but didn’t.
That’s all I can think about as I sit across the dinner table from Emelia, and she smiles at my daughter, who is regaling her with tales of life in a kindergarten classroom.
I’ve been quiet, replaying what might have happened if I had acted faster, before she pulled away. Would she have pulled away anyway, or would she have sunk into the kiss as my lips met hers? What would she have tasted like? Would it have escalated to something more?
“Can I, Daddy?”
Baylor’s voice draws me from my thoughts. The way the two of them are staring at me makes me think this isn’t the first time they’ve tried to get my attention.
“Sorry. What did you say, kiddo?”
“Can I have some raspberries for dessert?”
“Yeah, of course. One second.”
I consider it a small parenting win that very often, Baylor prefers any type of berry for dessert over ice cream or chocolate.
I go to the fridge, pull out the berries, and give them a wash while Emelia and Baylor continue their conversation. Baylor is telling her about the rocking horse her Uncle Hollis made for her when she was little.
“It’s the one in the corner of my room. But I’m too big for it now.”
I’m not facing them, but I can imagine my little girl puffing her chest out when she says it, full of pride, since she’s coming up on her sixth birthday.
After I’ve put the berries into a bowl, I walk back over to the table and slide it in front of Baylor. “Did you want anything, Emelia?”
“No, you sit down and relax. I’m going to clean up in a second.”
We’ve developed a routine since she moved in.
I do the cooking, and she cleans up after.
The two times she cooked a meal for the three of us, the kitchen was a write-off after.
Emelia doesn’t seem to have learned the fine art of cleaning up as you go, though she’s done a pretty good job of keeping her untidiness to the guest room.
It only occasionally spills out onto the bathroom counter when she’ll leave various beauty and hairstyling products there.
It doesn’t annoy me as much as I thought it would.
“Look, Emelia.” Baylor has a raspberry on the end of each of her fingers.
It’s something she’s done since she was little. Back then, she liked to pretend she had her nails painted red. Now she just thinks it’s fun to eat the raspberries off each of her fingertips.
Emelia laughs at her and ruffles her hair. “That’s a neat trick. I’ve never seen anyone do that before.”
Baylor’s eyes light up as if Emelia just crowned her princess of the world. “Wanna try it?”
“I think my fingers might be too big, but let’s see.” She takes a raspberry out of the bowl, but when she tries to put it on the end of her finger, it splits apart. “No go.”
“That’s okay. Don’t feel bad. Your fingers are just bigger.”
Emelia tries not to laugh. “I’ll try not to worry too much about it. Are raspberries your favorite?”
Baylor goes into ranking the different kinds of berries she likes, in order from five to number one, while Emelia listens intently. When she’s done, Emelia starts to clean.
“Can I help you?” Baylor asks.
“Of course. Why don’t you carry the dishes over to me at the sink, and then I’ll give them a rinse and put them in the dishwasher?”
“Okay!” Baylor hops off her seat and gets to it.
When I try to help out, Emelia pins me with a stare. “Sit. We’ve got this. You know the deal.”
“Yeah, Daddy, you know the deal.” Baylor looks up at Emelia, clearly looking for her approval.
Emelia and I share a look and a sly smile.
When they’re done cleaning the kitchen, Baylor asks Emelia if she wants to play Barbies with her in her room.
Emelia frowns. “I’m sorry, but I need to go do some work on my computer.”
Is that strain in her voice real, or am I imagining it?
Before Baylor can try to guilt her, I interject. “No problem. Go about your evening.”
My daughter looks at me, a wrinkled forehead and nose, and I give her a look. Her shoulders slump, and after Emelia has left the kitchen, we have yet another talk about how she can’t make Emelia feel bad if she has other things to do and can’t play with her.
The two of us run through our nightly routine. I play Barbies with Baylor for a bit, then she has her bath and a bedtime snack, brushes her teeth, and I read her a bedtime story before tucking her in and saying good night.
After I get a load of laundry in, I decide to head out to the dock to relax for a bit. October is almost here, and after it’s come and gone, it will be too chilly to sit out here and enjoy the night sky.
I step out onto the deck, the boards creaking under my feet.
That’s when I hear it—the sound of sniffling.
The farther I walk down the dock, the louder it gets, until it comes to an abrupt stop.
When I reach the end of the dock, Emelia is nestled under a blanket in one of the loungers.
She’s wiping tears off her cheeks, and it’s obvious she’s attempting to hide the fact that she’s out here alone, crying.
Seeing her upset like this is like a kick to the gut. It makes my stomach turn.
“Are you okay?” I sit on the lounger beside hers, but instead of sprawling out on it, I face her with my feet on the deck between the two loungers.
“I’m okay,” she says so softly I can barely hear her.
From the red-rimmed look of her eyes, she’s been out here crying for a while.
“Hey…” I place my hand over the blanket on her leg, squeezing her knee. “What’s going on?”
She shakes her head and squeezes her eyes shut, more tears dripping down her cheeks, followed by huge, racking sobs. I slide over and join her on the lounger, pulling her into my arms to comfort her.
“Hey, hey. It’s okay, it’s okay.” I repeat it, stroking her back with my hand.
She rests her cheek on my chest, allowing me in instead of refusing my comfort. After a minute or two, her breathing settles, and she’s no longer sobbing.
“Want to talk about it?”
She shakes her head, pressing her face into my sweatshirt.
“It might help you feel better.”
Emelia doesn’t respond, but after a minute, she rolls away from me and sits up, facing me, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hands. “You’ll think I’m an even worse person than you already do if I tell you.”
My shoulders slump. I guess that was the impression I gave her until a few weeks ago. “I don’t think you’re a terrible person. My reaction to you was all about my own shit and had nothing to do with you.” I tuck a piece of hair behind her ear.
Her gaze flicks up, meeting mine, and she relaxes, her tense shoulders dropping an inch, a long stream of air rushing from her mouth.
“What’s going on?”
“My mother died when I was three years old.”
“I’m sorry. I know how painful that is.”
Her head tilts. “You do?”
“My mother passed away too. I was a little older than you, but I understand the kind of hole that leaves behind.”
“Was…was she sick?”
I draw a breath and shake my head. It’s been so long since I’ve had to tell anyone this. Probably since Kate. “She died giving birth to Hollis.”
Her hand covers her mouth. “That’s so sad.”
I nod. “Yeah.” I clear my throat to fight against the growing lump. “So I don’t know exactly how it feels in your situation, but I know what it’s like to lose a mother and not have one in your life.”
She takes my hand and squeezes. “That’s the thing—I did have a mother growing up.
My birth mom and my dad had a one-night stand, and she never told my dad about me.
When my mom died, my dad was notified. Shortly after, my dad took me in, he got together with Molly, and she raised me as her own.
She’s never been my stepmom. I’ve always thought of her as my mom. ”
I blink in surprise. “Your dad didn’t know you existed?”
I can’t imagine finding out about Baylor when she was three years old, knowing I had missed so much of her life already.
“No, my mom never told my dad, and since there was no one else for me to go live with, I was plopped on his doorstep in Alaska. Metaphorically speaking.”
“That must’ve been a hell of a surprise. Why didn’t your mom ever tell him?”
She shrugs, pulling her hand away from mine. I immediately want to take it back, wanting to tell her she can talk to me, to trust me.
“Who knows? I don’t remember my mom at all, not even what she looked like. All I’ve ever known is the family I was raised by. They loved me and never made me feel unwanted.”
“But…” I arch an eyebrow.
“My parents never did anything to make me feel any different, but once my siblings came along, I began feeling like I didn’t quite fit in.
It wasn’t anything anyone ever said or did.
It was just little things. Like how people would say my sister looked so much like our mom, but no one had ever said that to me, for obvious reasons, how my birth certificate had a different last name.
Once in elementary school, we had to do a project tracing our ancestry, and I did Molly’s side.
When I presented it to the class, I remember feeling like a fraud, like I was lying because it wasn’t really my history.
And every time I feel that way, I’m swallowed up by guilt.
Why can’t it be enough? I’m lucky that after my birth mother died, I was still able to have a complete family who loved me.
Lots of kids don’t get that lucky. But here I am, wondering what my birth mother was like, what her story was, where and who I come from. ”
“Emelia, you’re talking like you’re not entitled to your feelings.”
“I’m not. How can I be? My parents loved me so much. How am I even halfway entitled to the way I feel?”
I sit up across from her and take her hands. “Have you ever told your parents how you feel?”