Chapter 25
Cody
It’s later in the week, early morning, and I’ve come over to the lodge to help Karissa with whatever she needs before I get working on Addison’s cabin again.
Emma’s asleep in the swing; looks like she’s dreaming.
Karissa’s sitting on the edge of the couch, wearing an oversized purple T-shirt with spit-up stains on the shoulder.
A pile of clean baby clothes sits beside her.
She’s folding them, slowly, like she’s tired of it all.
I’ve been thinking about what Jesse said the other day, about a date night, to get her out of the house for a real break.
I clear my throat and step away from the now clean and empty sink, drying my hands on a dish towel as I cross into the living room.
Karissa blinks and looks at me. “What?”
“Nothing.” I rub a hand along the back of my neck. “Just thinking.”
My heart beats quicker and harder against my rib cage. “What if we went out for dinner?” I finally say.
Her eyebrows lift. “Like…out out?”
“Yeah, just two hours, me and you. Leave Emma with my mom.”
She hesitates. “I don’t know—”
“She’d love to. Or Addison would fight her to babysit too, I’m sure.”
Karissa chews the inside of her cheek, looking to the swing.
I shove my hands in my pockets. “It’s not a date. Just food. I’m not tryin’ to make it weird.”
Her gaze snaps to mine.
“I think you need a break is all,” I add.
“Okay, yeah. Sure.”
“Good. I’ll talk to my mom and I’ll text you.”
“Okay.” A soft smile surfaces from the corners of her lips, making something twist in my chest.
I head for the door, turning away before she can see how much that little smile of hers just wrecked me, then step out into the heat.
* * *
I’m freshly showered by five, the ends of my hair still damp under my hat. Jeans, boots, black Grunt Style T-shirt, which is tighter across my arms and chest than I remember. Deodorant, cologne…even trimmed the beard.
When I get to the lodge, I push the door open slowly before stepping in. I don’t knock because Mom’s already here.
She’s holding Emma in the kitchen, talking to Karissa, who has a paper in hand and seems passionate about whatever is on it.
Couldn’t tell you what, I’m too distracted.
Her hair is curled, her makeup light, but it’s enough to make her glow.
She’s wearing jeans. I haven’t seen her in jeans. She looks…good. Real good.
Karissa finally looks to me, giving me a quick “hey” and a smile before looking back at my mom.
“Anyway, so I fed her at four. She’ll probably want a bottle around six.
It’s in the fridge. I taped instructions to it, and there are more bottles in there if she needs more, but she should be fine until we get back I’d think. ”
Mom nods with a smile; it’s clear she’s not worried about the evening. I’m certainly not.
Emma shifts in Mom’s arms, grunting a little before starting to fuss.
Karissa jumps in with more information. “She’s been fussy the past two evenings, so if she cries, just try bouncing her first. If that doesn’t work, the pacifiers are on the coffee table in the white bowl. She likes the green ones best.”
“Got it,” Mom says patiently. “She’ll be great.”
“She hates diaper changes,” Karissa adds. “So I lay a blanket across her belly so she isn’t too cold.”
Mom continues to bounce Emma gently in her arms and smiles. “Okay.”
I watch Karissa’s eyes bounce from Emma to the rest of the house like she’s trying to remember every possible detail that could be helpful.
“And—”
“Karissa…” I interrupt, as nicely as I can.
She looks at me. I shove my hands into my pockets and jerk my chin toward Mom. “She’s got four kids. She’ll be fine.”
Mom smirks softly.
“I know,” Karissa whispers. “I just…I haven’t left her yet.”
“You left her with me,” I remind her, thinking back to just last week when she had her postpartum appointment. “If you did that, you really have nothing to worry about.” I laugh and so does Mom.
“I guess,” Karissa mutters.
“I get it,” Mom adds softly. “But you need this. You two go; enjoy yourselves. I’ve got her.”
Karissa nods, still not looking totally convinced.
“Come on,” I tell her, gesturing toward the door.
She swallows, gives Emma a kiss, then grabs her purse from the counter.
Mom gives me a look as I peel open the door for us. A look I haven’t seen in years. Usually that look was followed by a quick curfew reminder and “Jesus is watching,” but this time I’m almost thirty…and there’s no curfew, no lecture. Just the weight of whatever she’s not saying.
“So where are we going?” Karissa asks as I drive us down the lane.
“There’s a place in town that makes good burgers. Laidback, not fancy.”
“Perfect.”
I take a left out onto the road and glance over at her, the words on the tip of my tongue, but my brain is wondering if I should say it.
“You look good,” I blurt out.
She looks down at herself, brushing her hands across her jeans. “Thanks.”
“You feel more like yourself yet?”
She shrugs her shoulders once. “I don’t know. I guess…”
“Good.”
When we get inside the restaurant, the booths lined against the wall are mainly empty. There are two families eating, a few older men at the counter. Nothing overwhelming. It’s quiet for the most part.
We slide into a booth near the window. Menus are already on the table, and I know what I want but I open it anyway, so she doesn’t feel rushed to figure out what she wants.
After the waitress leaves with our drink orders, I glance at Karissa and smile.
I’m still not past how good she looks tonight.
I’ve seen her dressed up for church before, but this is different.
Maybe it’s the way her hair’s done, or the way she smiles back at me, but for the entirety of time that I’ve known her, it’s been in the middle of everything—pregnancy, postpartum, and sleepless nights.
I guess I just haven’t had many chances to see her like this. I can’t seem to look away.
“Thanks for making me take a break,” she says with a short laugh on the end of it.
“Didn’t make you. Just offered.”
“I know. It feels weird that she’s not here too.”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
The waitress comes with our drinks, then takes our order. I get a burger. Karissa gets a grilled chicken sandwich and asks to replace the chips for fries. I’m glad. Glad she feels comfortable enough around me to order what she wants.
We sip our drinks, the silence between us a little awkward. She checks the time. I can tell she’s tense, anxious maybe, based on her jittery movements.
“She’s probably getting hungry soon,” she says.
“Yeah. Mom’s got it.” I assure her.
“I know.” There’s a sharp edge in her voice but it fades fast. “Sorry,” she adds before I can even react.
I hesitate, unsure if now’s the time to bring up how much she’s been worrying.
The last thing I want is to make her feel broken or like she’s failing.
Tonight is supposed to be a breather, a night away from spit-up and laundry, a reminder that she’s still herself underneath being a mom.