—FORTY—
I found a way to give her a forever August.
Our daughter, August Amelia, twirls the skirt of her birthday dress in ungraceful circles, two small palms cocooning her furry little friend.
I was never any good at life, and here I am now, living—while somehow managing to keep my kid alive, as well as my dog, who is a thousand years past ancient at this point, Melody’s aggressive infiltration of house plants, and this fucking hamster that clearly surpasses every law of hamster physics.
“Daddy, look!”
Oh, fuck, did it finally croak?
Bracing myself, I step closer to my daughter as the blades of grass tickle her bare toes. Her toothy grin has me letting out a breath of relief. “What is it, sunshine?”
Sunny blonde pigtails dance with the breeze, while wide green eyes twinkle in the midday glow.
She’s a spitting fucking image of her mother.
“Nutmeg wear birfday hat.”
A smile twitches on my mouth as I glance inside August’s cupped hands, taking in the tiny pink blossom that rests atop the hamster’s head. It’s a singular petal that blew free of the young peach tree flowering in our backyard.
It was one of the first things Melody did when she moved in with me three years ago. She planted a peach tree in honor of her late husband, and we’re hoping it will finally bear some fruit this summer.
“Parker!”
Melody’s panicked voice carries over to me from the back door, and I turn in place, casting worried eyes upon my very pregnant wife. She waves me over, looking frantic.
I race towards her. “Shit, what’s wrong?”
“It’s an emergency.”
Double shit.
“Are you going into labor?”
Melody is thirty-nine weeks along with our son, so planning a big party for August’s third birthday was risky. My mind has been consumed with harrowing images of the party being interrupted by Melody’s water breaking during the Happy Birthday song, painful contractions, and our son popping out on the kitchen floor next to the dog bowls.
“No, it’s worse,” she exclaims in a flustered breath, her braided pigtails swinging side to side as she shakes her head.
I pale.
Then I glance down at her swollen belly, just to make sure my kid didn’t already pop out and I fucking missed it.
“I burned the cupcakes,” she confesses, a horrified cry following. “Who am I? You should just take over.”
What the fuck?
Melody’s expression is riddled with regret.
In the years that I’ve known her, my wife has never once burned a cupcake. She’s well-known around town, practically a local celebrity, having opened up a successful bake shop downtown late last year. It was a natural progression once her in-home bakery became too much to maintain, and the ratio of flour dust to oxygen inside our home was becoming concerning.
I purse my lips through a frown. “The last time I tried to bake cupcakes with you, I forgot three critical ingredients. It was a terrible fucking idea.”
Her eyes flare, then shift to August, who is coming up behind me. “Language,” she whisper-scolds.
Oh, right. I’m trying to be more careful now that our daughter repeats literally everything.
Clearing my throat, I amend, “It was a terrible fudging idea.”
My eyebrows waggle. Melody blinks.
“Fudging,” I repeat, then let out a drawn-out sigh. “You know, fudge. Cupcakes. C’mon, that pun was gold.”
She stares at me for a moment before a smile stretches and her eyes shimmer with humor. “Oh, my God,” Melody replies, bursting into a fit of giggles and flipping one braid over her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Parker. My mind turned to sludge an hour ago, and I’m living in a perpetual hot flash.”
Her cheeks are rosy red, the flush spreading down her neck and chest. My palms reach out to pull her close, one pressing along her stomach, while the other reaches around her neck.
Fuck, she’s beautiful.
Placing a lingering kiss to her forehead, I whisper, “Now you know what it’s like for me being around you every day.”
She shivers. “Yeah, right… I’m a bowling ball within a bowling ball.”
“You’re fucking gorgeous.” My lips travel down her cheek, landing on two full lips, and I murmur suggestively, “How much time do we have before people show up?”
Melody melts into me for a blissful moment, temptation seizing her. But she quickly collects her bearings and delves right back into panic-mode. “Twenty minutes.”
The doorbell rings.
She goes ashen.
August pushes past us both with a squeal of excitement, still holding onto Nutmeg, while Walden hobble-skips along with her to the front of the house.
I take Melody’s face between my hands and bring her gaze to mine, smiling softly until she noticeably relaxes. “Melody March-Denison.”
“Yes?” she squeaks.
“How many batches of cupcakes did you already make?”
“Twelve.”
“Twelve batches, a dozen each? That’s one-hundred-and-forty-four cupcakes.”
She nods.
“How many regular cakes did you make?”
“Two.”
“Okay, well… if my math checks out, that equals approximately a-lot-of-fucking-cake. Everything will be okay, nobody will starve, and our grandchildren’s grandchildren will still have leftovers to spare.”
Melody heaves in a calming breath, curling her fingers around my wrists. Her eyes flicker with acceptance as she lifts her chin. “You’re right.”
“I know.”
“But…” Her tongue pokes out to slick her lips, and she swallows hard. “I burned the lemony ones.”
“With the meringue filling?”
She nods again.
“Fuck.”
Our mutual disappointment is interrupted when our daughter comes bounding back through the house, beaming with enthusiasm, her lacy dress billowing behind her little legs. “Uncle West and Auntie Lee-Lee!”
West and Leah enter the house with massive giftbags, likely containing obnoxiously loud toys that I’ll need to lose the batteries for. Melody tugs me inside through the back door and darts straight to Leah. The women do their girly hugging thing as West approaches, eyeing me warily in his khakis and lame polo.
“Hey, asshole.”
My arms cross, my gaze assessing him with equal distaste. “Hey.”
It’s been an interesting few years getting to know Melody’s brother. The truth is, we don’t have much in common. He likes beer and sports, while I like things that aren’t beer and sports. He enjoys going out to bars. The only thing I enjoy about bars is the leaving part. He has terrible taste in movies, and even worse taste in music, and he was a huge pain in my ass during the wedding planning two years ago when Melody and I decided on an intimate backyard ceremony instead of a ballroom extravaganza.
But fucking West just had to take over and hire a shitty rock band to serenade us with godawful Nickelback covers all night. He even got up on stage and sang that Photograph song as some kind of horrifying dedication, and Christ, that song was terrible enough to begin with—the memories still haunt me.
He also made a giant fucking spectacle of himself when he got trashed and drunkenly proposed to Leah in front of our seventy-five guests.
She slapped him. Then she kissed him. And then she slapped him again.
I’m pretty sure that sums up their entire relationship.
Last summer, they took a spontaneous trip to Las Vegas with another couple and “accidentally” got married by an Elvis impersonator who doubled as a male gigolo. Nobody is entirely sure what the fuck is going on between them, but honestly, I don’t think they do either.
But for all of our animosity, bickering, and insults, I think the thing we hate most is that we really don’t hate each other at all.
The asshole isn’t half bad. He loves the fuck out of Melody, and it’s hard not to respect someone like that. Not to mention, he really came through when I got this psychotic idea of building an entire second level onto my little ranch house. I figured we could use the extra space with our growing family, and apparently, I hate sleep and free time.
West helped me get Melody’s house fixed up to put on the market, and then he dedicated a hell of a lot of time to helping me with the new addition. He’s an electrician, so he actually knew his shit, and we semi-bonded over circuit breakers and ground conductors.
He narrows his eyes at me as we hold our stare, but West cracks first, a smirk lifting. “You get that dimmer switch all installed in the new nursery?” he wonders, shoving his hands into his pockets.
“Yeah. You figure out the HVAC problem for that one douchebag customer?”
He sniggers. “After all that, it was an issue with the flame sensor.”
“Shit.”
A beat goes by, easy smiles passing between us.
We fist-bump.
August bounces up and down in front of us with a wide smile, her pigtails bouncing with her. She holds up her arms to Leah, stealing her raven-haired godmother’s attention away from Melody. “Lee-Lee! Look at my fucky hamster. She has birfday hat.”
Oops.
I try my best to dissolve into the hardwood flooring when all three heads jerk towards me.
Leah clears her throat in an attempt to cover up her laughter. “Your fucky hamster. Wow, Aug, I can’t believe how cute she looks in that hat. And how… alive.”
She mouths to me, “How is it still alive?”
The thing has got to be four or five. Pretty sure it’s an alien hamster. Or a robot, like my sister.
I shrug.
Speaking of Bree, I step away from the crowd to pull out my phone. She was heading over to the party after her shift at the hospital, but it’s typical for her to get roped into more work.
While there are no notifications from Bree, there is a new Hangouts message waiting for me.
A genuine smile creeps in when my eyes skim over the message from my favorite pen pal.
RacerDude: I made the baseball team!!!
Fuck. Yes.
Zephyr79: Atta boy. I knew you would.
RacerDude: Thank u for helping me pitch the other day. I know u don’t really like sports.
Zephyr79: It was fun. You’re a natural. You can pay me back with a joyride when you’re a famous race car driver someday.
RacerDude: Yea right! Oh.. mom told me to tell you that we have a b-day present for August. Sry we can’t make the party today.
Zephyr79: That’s okay. She drew you a picture. It’s just a red scribble, but it’s supposed to be a car. Act excited.
RacerDude: Cute!! :-) thx August.
Zephyr79: Gotta go, but let me know when you have your first game. We will be there. Proud of you, Owen.
RacerDude: Ur the best. TTYL
Slipping my phone into my back pocket, Melody is standing in front of me when I raise my head. Her knowing smile flashes bright.
“Owen?”
“Yeah. He made the team,” I tell her, unable to hide my own proud grin.
“That’s so wonderful. I knew he would.” Melody saunters over to me, wobbling a little like Walden does, which is charming as fuck, and leans up to kiss me. It’s sweet and gentle at first, but I clasp her cheeks between my palms, deepening it instantly. She sucks in a sharp breath and lets it out as a squeaky sigh, our tongues touching and tasting, and we lose ourselves for a moment, uncaring of the guests only a few feet away.
A satisfied moan escapes when I pull back, dusting my thumbs along her rouge-stained cheeks. “Mmm. You taste like lemon frosting.”
“I got hungry,” she whispers back, caressing our noses together, her eyes glazed and amorous.
Another groan filters through my lips when she grinds up against me. “You’re making me hungry.”
I’m about two seconds away from begging Leah to keep an eye on August so I can borrow my wife for highly important reasons when the doorbell rings again, stealing our opportunity. Electricity still crackles between us, green embers dancing in Melody’s eyes, and she lets me know with just a look that these flames will be stoked again later.
Can’t fucking wait.
But first, it’s time to watch my little girl annihilate a Peppa Pig pi?ata.
The sun sets low in the sky, highlighting the horizon in a burnt orange blush. It captures my attention for a striking moment, and I reminisce my father’s words from all those years ago.
Fleeting beauty.
The most precious kind.
But as my eyes dip away from the setting sun and take in the blur of smiles, laughter, and joy all around me, I realize something pretty fucking powerful.
It’s all fleeting.
Life, itself, is fleeting.
I watch from a lawn chair perched in the front yard as partygoers disperse, scooping my daughter into strong arms, giving her twirls and kisses, thanking Melody for a spectacular party. West snakes his arm around Leah, kissing her temple, and I see the love between them—despite the tumultuous tide of their relationship, there is affection, and there is love. I kind of want to shake them, tell them to get their shit together and appreciate what they have, because it’s all so fucking fleeting, but I think that kind of awareness can only be learned, not taught.
Melody’s parents wave their goodbyes to me from across the yard, and I smile my send-off. They’ve taken me in and treated me like their own damn kid over the past few years, and I couldn’t be more grateful. I was robbed of that kind of relationship, that special brand of connection that only a mother or father can give. It broke me. It whittled me down to near nothingness, shaping me into someone I didn’t even recognize.
Bree did, though. She saw me—the real me, that little boy buried deep down inside, with a cherry-stained chin, laughter in his eyes, and a strong, worthy heart.
“Eat up, little brother.”
My sister pulls a chair up beside mine, handing me a container of miniature lemon loaves. I eye the offering with a half-smile. “Because my wife didn’t bake enough cake to have us all in permanent carb comas?”
Her acorn eyes glimmer with the glow of the red-yellow sundown. “Lemon cake is the happiest dessert,” she says, her teeth flashing white. “Melody texted me to grab some on the way over because she knows it’s your favorite and she burned them. I couldn’t say no to her twenty-seven sad face emojis.”
“She always gets you with the emojis.” Taking the plastic container from her hands, it crinkles in my grip as I rake my gaze over the treats. My heart swells. “Fuck, I don’t know what I did to deserve that woman.”
Bree shrugs, her coiled tendrils of hair bouncing over her shoulders. “It clearly wasn’t your quality baking abilities.”
I cringe. “Yeah, no. Maybe it was my warm and fuzzy disposition.”
“It definitely wasn’t that either.”
“My endearing personality?”
“Highly doubtful.”
We share a playful grin as the mid-March breeze blows by, fresh and cooling.
Bree reaches over to my chair and places her palm across my chest, patting gently. “It was this. She saw what I’ve always seen.”
My heartbeat skips at the sentiment, and my gaze drifts over to where Melody is wrapped in a warm embrace with Ms. Katherine. The two women pull back with tears glinting in their eyes, a testament to their strong bond and compassionate hearts. August dances around them in a princess crown, waving two glow sticks in tiny fists, her face still sticky with bright pink frosting.
A sigh escapes me, something wistful and pure. “Goddamn, I’m lucky…”
Bree’s fingers trail from my heart to my hand, and she gives it a light squeeze. “It’s not luck, Parker. This was all you.”
I swallow, drinking in the scene before me.
“You built this life, just like you built your home—from the ground up, with careful tools, hard work, and a lot of blood, sweat, and tears.” Her arm stretches outward, showcasing the fruits of my labor. “You put this here.”
My chest thunders with enlightenment. I did this. I chose this life for myself—this was what was on the other side for me. This was what was shrouded beyond the hurdles of hardship.
My heart.
My hope.
My real home.
The truth is, I never truly had a home until I had her. I had four walls and a place to lay my head, but no place to lay my heart. I planted roots here, but those roots had nowhere to grow. They were stagnant and shriveling.
Wilting.
My life could have gone in so many other directions. I had the power to make different choices, take alternate routes. It would have been so easy to coast along those dark waters until I gave up the fight and let myself drown.
But I chose to swim.
We hold the key to our own happiness, and what we put on the other side of that door is entirely up to us.
Our beginning doesn’t have to be our end.
Bree lets me go and rises from the chair as the final guests depart and Melody saunters over to us with August in her arms and our baby boy in her belly.
“I’m going to take off,” my sister says, meeting Melody halfway and enveloping both girls in a fond hug. “Enjoy the peace.”
She lifts her hand in goodbye as I stand to my feet and wave back. When her car rolls out of the driveway, gravel crunching beneath the tires and music fading off as she disappears down the dirt road, I turn to face a smiling Melody.
Her eyes are tired, gleaming with exhaustion, her skin pink from either a hot flash or wind burn. A long, flowing dress tickles her ankles, smeared with fingerpaint and cake. Both braids came loose, leaving her straw blonde hair in a mess of waves and tangles as a crisp wind sends it dancing behind her like a veil.
She’s burned out and overworked, but she’s still smiling.
I return the smile, plucking our three-year-old from her weakening arms, taking some of her weight. “Story time?”
Both girls nod with bright grins, and we collectively move to the back of the house and perch ourselves in the grass near the slow-growing magnolia tree. Walden joins us, prancing through the cracked back door with his red ball in his mouth, his long, healthy tufts of hair shining beneath the ambient sun.
August scurries from my lap the moment we’re situated, racing towards the house. “I get Nutmeg! She love stories.”
Melody and I share a tender glance as Walden settles beside us. I stroke a palm through his fur, and his sigh of contentment filters through me, adding to my placidity.
“I back!”
My daughter runs forward with the hamster in her hands, crawling into my lap.
August loves story time. She’s our little storyteller.
Every evening we gather together and talk about our favorite part of the day. We call it story time, but it’s more a moment of reflection. Appreciation. We look for the good in each day, even if the entirety of it felt like shit.
There is always something.
However small or insignificant, there’s always a glimmer of hope—of sweetness.
A starting point to build from.
I wrap an arm around my wife, pulling her against my chest until both of my favorite girls are entangled with me. We spend the next ten minutes talking, reminiscing, and watching the sun cast its final rays of golden orange along the skyline, bathing us in dusk.
Before we head back inside, a gentle breeze blows through, stealing our breath.
August stills in my lap and wonders aloud, “What that, Daddy? It tickle me.”
My fingers weave through Melody’s hair as a smile paints my lips. She snuggles in closer, already knowing the answer.
I asked my father that same question one sunny afternoon on his front porch as the daylilies danced to a funny sort of breeze. Swallowing, I reply, “A zephyr.”
Giggles erupt from little pink lips. “That silly.”
Holding them both tighter, I recall a hazy memory with my father as I sat beside him on the porch swing with a lapful of plump cherries and a mischievous pup at my feet. He told me that every time a breeze rolled through it was a zephyr—a gentle promise of new beginnings.
Zephyrus was the god of the west wind, the god of springtime, a representation of fresh starts and growth. A beacon of hope and new life.
For whatever reason, I carried that moment with me. As a scared child, locked in that closet, I’d feel him with me every time a gust of wind shimmied beneath the door, a calm presence amidst the darkness.
My father. Zephyr.
He became my companion, my imaginary friend, whispering in my ear to hold on.
Winter doesn’t last forever.
Spring is coming.
It took a long fucking time to find my new beginning—my starting point. My blooming magnolia in a field of wilting and decay. But I wouldn’t change a goddamn thing… because everything led me to her. To them.
August leaps from my lap to dance around the yard, her hair and dress spinning as her feet whirl in clumsy circles. My eyes water at the vision. So precious, so beautiful, so fleeting.
A hard puff of air escapes me when Melody takes our daughter’s place, hopping into my lap and leaning back against my chest.
I grin. “So intrusive.”
She nuzzles in closer, her fine hairs tickling my chin as a chuckle breaks free. “Like the sun, right?”
My arms encase her body, pulling her as close as possible. I breathe in her citrusy musk, her flowery skin, and the warmth that bleeds from every inch of her. “Yeah… that’s right.”
Melody will always be the sun, shining bright, a beautiful new beginning.
But above all, she is my moon.
The perfect end.
“We go inside! Nutmeg sleepy,” August calls over, her smile sparkling, just like her mother’s. “We go home.”
Home.
With the love of my life tucked inside my arms, I watch from the grass as my daughter skips to the back door with a hamster in her hands and an old, sweet dog trailing her ankles.
My heart soars. “I love you, Melody,” I murmur softly, placing a kiss to the top of her head.
She sighs deeply before we rise to our feet, and then she twists in my embrace. Glancing up at me, the sweetest smile blooms to life, and her eyes twinkle jade and joyful, whispering the words before they even leave her lips. “I love you.”
I smile back.
Home.
They say that home is where the heart is…
And I know I found them both when I found her.