Thirteen #2
Brielle pours cereal and listens to the violent crackle of Rice Krispies while one kid cries because the other got “more blue marshmallows.”
The domestic noise is so aggressively ordinary it almost feels surreal.
Did last night really happen?
The thought keeps returning unexpectedly.
She wipes another spill.
Checks the clock.
Swears softly under her breath.
They’re late.
Not catastrophic yet.
But approaching it quickly.
The next ten minutes become a blur of coats, missing shoes, water bottles, arguments about socks, and one child insisting she physically cannot go to school unless her stuffed penguin comes too.
By the time Brielle gets everyone shoved toward the front door, she realizes she’s still barefoot.
Still wearing the inside-out hoodie.
Still carrying yesterday all over her skin.
Jason catches her gently by the wrist before she follows the kids outside.
She turns.
He tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear before pressing a kiss against her cheek.
Softer than before.
Private somehow, even standing in the middle of the hallway chaos.
Outside, the kids are already climbing into the car yelling about waffles and seatbelt fairness and whether dogs can legally become police officers.
The house falls briefly quiet around them.
“You okay?” Jason asks softly.
She nods automatically.
Then realizes it isn’t enough.
She leans forward instead, resting her forehead briefly against his.
His hands settle at her waist instantly.
Warm.
Steady.
“Good,” he says quietly. “You’re allowed.”
The words hit somewhere deep enough to hurt.
She almost laughs.
Almost cries.
Instead, she kisses him quickly—once, hard enough to feel real—before turning toward the door.
As she buckles kids into car seats and untangles backpack straps, her mind drifts once more toward the kitchen counter.
Toward the wine glass waiting exactly where she left it.
A dare.
A promise.
Proof.
She decides to let it wait there a little longer.
And maybe, for the first time in her life, she lets herself wait too.
?
Laundry is the safest ritual Brielle knows.
She stands in the hallway with one hip braced against the dryer, folding shirts and matching socks while the machine hums steadily beside her.
The rhythm is familiar enough to quiet most things: the soft thud of tumbling clothes, the scent of detergent and warmth, the repetitive comfort of making order out of chaos.
These are the guardrails of her ordinary life.
The rituals she returns to when everything else feels too big.
Usually, muscle memory is enough to keep her mind blank.
Not today.
Every time she folds a sleeve, she thinks about hands—holding her, guiding her, opening her carefully instead of asking her to become smaller.
Every time she smooths fabric flat against itself, she remembers the difference between being tolerated and being fully wanted.
The memories no longer hit with sharp intensity.
Now they settle lower.
A warm ache in her chest.
A quiet fullness beneath her ribs.
She picks up Jason’s flannel from the basket—the one from this morning—and pauses.
It smells like him.
Cedar.
Soap.
The faint trace of bourbon lingering deep in the fabric.
She smooths it carefully between her palms before folding it with almost embarrassing tenderness.
He wore this while watching her unravel.
While letting her become every version of herself at once without asking her to apologize for any of them.
Her phone sits propped against the breadbox nearby, screen still glowing with the shared family calendar.
Soccer practice.
Dentist appointment.
Trash night.
“school spirit day???” in aggressive neon green, complete with the original question marks still attached.
The normalcy of it makes her smile.
She scrolls through the week slowly, eyes catching on pockets of empty space between obligations and routines.
Windows.
Possibilities.
Her thumb hovers over one open evening.
She hesitates.
Then types:
Next time?
The words sit there glowing on the screen while her heartbeat climbs unexpectedly fast.
It shouldn’t feel dangerous.
Three tiny syllables on a shared calendar.
And yet.
Her stomach flips anyway.
After a long moment, she presses SAVE.
The event settles neatly between “carpool” and “grocery run,” absurdly domestic.
Brielle goes back to folding laundry, but her attention keeps drifting toward the phone.
Waiting.
Trying not to wait.
The dryer buzzes.
A kid yells from upstairs.
The phone vibrates.
She grabs it too quickly.
The calendar refreshes.
A peach emoji now sits beside the event title.
Nothing else.
A startled laugh escapes her before she can stop it.
Of course.
Relief washes through her so suddenly she has to lean against the counter for a second.
Then the phone buzzes again.
A comment notification this time.
Leo
Tell me when.
That’s it.
No flirting.
No pressure.
No attempt to push beyond what she’s offering.
Just three simple words carrying the full weight of possibility behind them.
Brielle stands there in the laundry room with a dish towel still clutched in one hand, feeling the quiet hum of anticipation spread slowly through her body.
Not panic.
Not guilt.
Something steadier.
Something chosen.
For years she waited for permission before wanting anything too loudly.
Now she’s scheduling desire between dentist appointments and school pickups like it belongs there.
Maybe it always did.
She locks the phone and sets it back against the breadbox, pulse still fluttering beneath her skin.
She’s in this now.
Fully.
And for the first time in her life, stepping forward feels easier than stepping back.
?
The wine glass survives the day.
Not because anyone forgets about it.
Not because it disappears into the chaos.
Because, somehow, all three of them silently agree to let it stay.
It stands on the kitchen counter through the entire day like a tiny monument no one acknowledges directly.
Around it, life continues in relentless motion: backpacks emptied across the floor, Tupperware migrating endlessly between cabinets and dishwasher, dinner prep unfolding in stages of controlled disaster.
The kids barely notice the glass at all.
And when they do, it’s just another adult object occupying counter space, infinitely less important than screen time negotiations or the deeply personal injustice of being asked to eat green beans.
But Brielle notices it every time she passes.
On the way to the fridge.
The sink.
The back door when the dog starts whining.
Each glance lands differently now.
Not guilt.
Not nostalgia.
Recognition.
Proof.
A fixed point reminding her she didn’t imagine any of it.
That wanting more didn’t destroy her life.
If anything, it sharpened it.
Jason finds her in the kitchen just after the dishes are finished and the last lunch container has finally been hunted down from wherever the kids abandoned it.
She’s standing at the sink drying her hands when he steps up behind her and slides both arms around her waist.
His chin settles against her shoulder.
His scruff scratches lightly at her neck.
“Hey,” he says softly.
Unhurried.
Like they finally stopped racing each other toward exhaustion.
Brielle melts backward into him instinctively.
“Hey.”
He sways them gently once or twice in the middle of the kitchen, and suddenly she’s twenty again—barefoot in some terrible first apartment, dancing slowly with him while music crackled through cheap speakers balanced on a windowsill.
Neither of them mentions the wine glass.
They don’t need to.
It isn’t evidence anymore.
Isn’t even a souvenir.
It’s a promise sitting quietly in plain sight.
Daring her to shrink herself again.
She won’t.
Later, after the kids are asleep and the house finally softens into nighttime silence, Brielle lies in bed carrying the residue of the day across her skin.
Salt from tears over missing homework.
The scent of lavender bath soap.
The ache in her calves from kneeling to scrub marker off bathroom tile.
Domesticity layered over desire until she can’t separate one from the other anymore.
And strangely, she doesn’t want to.
Jason slips into bed beside her.
No fanfare.
No hesitation.
His hand slides beneath the sheet and settles immediately at her hip, warm and steady, holding her like the shape of her body matters to him in ways he’s only just learned how to say out loud.
She turns toward him in the dark.
Finds his eyes easily.
There’s no uncertainty in either of them now.
Only awareness.
Only possibility.
“Next time,” he whispers.
The words are so simple they undo her completely.
A startled laugh escapes her—wild and real and alive enough that she has to press her face briefly into his shoulder to muffle it.
Because now she understands something she didn’t before:
Next time won’t happen by accident.
Not a loophole.
Not a mistake.
A choice.
An intentional one.
Jason’s hand stays firm at her hip while she slowly drifts toward sleep, the hunger inside her no longer frightening.
Just bright.
Tomorrow she’ll drink her coffee black.
Maybe she’ll finally wash the wine glass.
Maybe she won’t.
Tonight, she leaves it exactly where it is.