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“Enough, Casanova. We’re going to be late.” She headed to the kitchen to pour coffee into her travel mug. Watching her move with ease around my house made my chest tighten in an almost painful way.
In the weeks since we were married, I had watched as she slowly integrated into the space that had been mine and Katie’s. Whitney’s favorite travel mug now sat on the drainboard, where she placed it when she got home from work. Her coat hung on the hook behind the front door, and her shoes were placed in a neat row next to mine on the shoe rack. Her berry yogurts existed side by side with Katie’s Jell-O cups, and her favorite brownie ice cream was half-eaten in the freezer. It wasn’t overwhelming, and it wasn’t as if she had taken over. It was a considerate, easy process. A melding of three lives into one.
I found that I liked having Whitney around. We ate dinner together as a family, and after Katie went to bed, if I hadn’t passed out, then we would watch TV together. Whitney was pretty funny when she was mellow and relaxed.
There were moments when things were so peaceful between us that I could almost imagine what it would be like to be married to her for real. If things were different.
If she wasn’t her and I wasn’t me.
If our lives were meant to coexist long term. If we wanted the same things.
Whitney grabbed her purse and slung it over her shoulder, then without my having to ask, she leaned down and lifted Katie into the air, settling her on her hip in a totally natural way—as if she had done it a thousand times before. Katie patted Whitney’s cheek, pulling on the necklace Whit was wearing.
“Ready to go, Boo?” Katie asked her, kissing her temple. I loved the nickname Whitney had given my daughter. It was one only she used. I liked that they had something that was just for the two of them alone.
I stood there for a moment and watched them and felt something both alien and familiar at the same time.
This was what a family looked like.
I followed them out to my truck. I was driving Whitney this morning since we were both meeting Adam first thing. I would be sticking around for the ribbon-cutting, then I’d head to another job in the afternoon.
“I’ll pick you up around five?” I asked her after we were settled in the truck.
“Sounds good. Maybe I could try cooking dinner for a change,” Whitney suggested once we were on the road.
“Is that safe?” I chuckled. Whitney’s less than stellar cooking skills were well documented. She freely admitted that she could barely boil water. I did the cooking; I wasn’t great at it, but it was at least edible.
Whitney swatted my arm, and I liked the way her fingers lingered there. Or was I imagining it? “Ha, ha, Kyle. I’ve been watching this great YouTube show on cooking for beginners. I think I sort of know what I’m doing. I’ll start small, though. No sense in poisoning you both this early on.” Whitney turned in her seat and made a goofy face at Katie, who kicked her tiny legs and waved her arms frantically.
“Octi, Dada!” Katie demanded.
“Octi?” Whitney asked.
I turned on the stereo, and Octopus’s Garden blared through the speakers. “My girl is a Beatles nut,” I explained as we pulled onto my parents’ street.
“She’s got good taste.” Whitney turned in her seat again so that she could sing along with Katie, the two of them belting out the lyrics as loud as they could. Whitney had a surprisingly good singing voice. Though I shouldn't have been shocked. I had realized years ago that there wasn’t much that Whitney did that wasn’t amazing.
I pulled up in front of my parents’ house and grabbed Katie’s diaper bag. “Can you get the kiddo?” I asked Whitney, who seemed suddenly tense.
“Don’t you want to take her in by yourself?” Whitney bit down on her bottom lip in that way she did when she was feeling nervous.
“What’s wrong?” I frowned.
“I don’t think your parents are very happy we’re … well, married. I feel like I’m being judged every time we see them. They’re lovely people, Kyle. But I feel like I’m disappointing them.” Whitney’s eyes darted to me and then back to my parents’ house.
My parents had been tricky since the wedding. They were unfailingly polite to Whitney, but they had never been very good at hiding their feelings about people, so of course, Whitney picked up on their unhappiness about the situation.
I took her hand and held it lightly in mine. It was a gesture that was starting to become second nature. To touch her. These soft and simple actions that felt at times more intimate than…
