Clearing my throat before stepping toward her, as if my body knows it needs to be close to her without my mind truly registering. “Not officially,” I say, my voice more raspy than I intend. “I’m Jack.” I hold out my hand.
Before she can say anything, I feel a little hand wrap around my pointer finger, and my heart instantly stops when I look down to see another pair of those cool blue eyes. They light up, like when the sunlight directly hits the lake—it’s almost blinding, and I have to resist the urge to look away to protect my eyes. There’s this foreign amazement as her eyes roam my face and then down to where she holds my finger.
My body tenses, and I don’t move. Babies make me nervous, especially babies associated with women who make my wholebody feel warm and tingly for reasons I don’t have the time or capacity to understand right now.
A soft laugh brings my attention back up, and I don’t know how I’ll ever look away. I’m met with the most beautiful smile, and, for a moment, the world feels quieter, like the curve of her lips have tugged all the light toward her, softening everything around us. Softening me, softening the thoughts in my brain, softening the tension that is constantly holding strong throughout my entire body.
“I’m Rumi,” she says, a slight pink to her cheeks. “And this is Evelyn, but everyone calls her Evee.”
“Evee,” falls from my lips, the name feeling familiar as it leaves, the same way her mom’s did all those months ago when I found her on the side of the road. “It’s nice to meet you both,” I say, still holding out my hand as Evee tugs on my fingers now with both hands.
Looking at Rumi, I can’t help the memories that come flooding back. Seeing those dark waves matted with blood against the broken window. Seeing her pale skin covered in cuts and bruises, her swollen belly, the shattered glass, the eerily dark and quiet night.
All alone and probably so scared when she woke up.
Her blue eyes, the color of the lake, the color of my peace and solace.
A part of me wants to know what happened to her after the ambulance took her away. Did she have Evee that night? Was she all alone when she gave birth too?
Who was she running to that night?
Or, what was she running from?
My eyes trail past her, wondering if she’s here alone, or if Evee’s dad is close by.
“It’s just me,” I hear, and it brings my attention back to her.
“I’m sorry?” I say, confused.
“Everyone always does that,” she answers. “Looks around to find her—” she pauses, looking down at Evee as if she’s her entire world. “Someone else.” Her voice is quiet, like she’s afraid of being too loud.
“Oh, I—” I start, feeling heat rush up my neck. “I didn’t mean?—”
“No, it’s okay,” she says, that smile back but a little softer this time, not quite reaching her eyes.
“I just assumed—” I stop, needing to regroup, needing to see those eyes shine again. “I was raised by a single mom after my dad left when I was ten, and it was just me, my mom, and my sister who’s over there. Her name is Emerson, and, well, I guess you know that because Luke introduced her, and?—”
I notice that smile is back the same time I realize I’m rambling like a moron. I don’t know if I strung this many words together in the last eighteen months, but I was talking long enough for Evee to get bored of me and start playing with the cardboard coaster that was on the bar top.
I’ve never so openly offered information to a stranger, especially information so personal. But it was something about the way she watched me as I talked, as her lips turned up, her eyes on me and only me made the words fall from my lips. There’s something about her that feels familiar—safe, even—yet I’m just a stranger to her.
“Sorry,” I mutter, my now-free hand goes to the back of my neck, and it’s hot to the touch. “All I meant to say was, I didn’t mean to imply that you weren’t enough.”
“Oh,” she says, waving an arm in the air, the other holding Evee close. “No, no, please don’t apologize. I didn’t think you were.”
“I don’t know what kind of men you’re used to, but I’m a man who apologizes when he’s in the wrong, Rumi.”
Her blush deepens, and I have to will my heart not to stop. She’s avoiding my eyes now, looking just past where I’m standing, and there is something about her shyness, her timidness, that makes me want to do everything in my power to make her comfortable.
I circle around her, sitting down on the empty chair on her other side, hoping that she spins her chair to face me, and feeling like I won the lottery when she does.
“Can we start over?” I ask her.
She nods.
“How old is your daughter?” My question feels silly to ask, as if I don’t already know the answer, but it’s the only one that comes to mind.
“She turns one next week. Her birthday is May 19th,” she answers, and it takes a whole lot of effort to not let my jaw drop.
