I can't even give him the simple truth when he asks for it—no, everything's not okay.
When our eyes meet, his are clear and unwavering, and they stay that way as he repeats his question. "Tomorrow? We'll tell Ruthie?"
So, why does it feel like I'm already failing them?
Not because I don’t care enough.
But because even though I care so much, I clearly don’t know how to stop holding back.
"Tomorrow," I echo, my voice steadier than I feel.
Why can't I give them everything?
40
Liam
Iwoke up this morning with a strange flutter in my stomach. Not fear, not regret—just the quiet reminder that things are about to change. It’s like the last morning of a long, perfect vacation—the kind where every day has been full of adventure and memories, just you and the person you love most. Part of you doesn’t want it to end, but the other part knows that life is waiting for you beyond the bubble.
For twelve years, it’s just been Ruthie and me. She’s been my whole world. My constant. My everything. But now, Tessa is…here—steady, peaceful. The kind of comfortable you only feel at home.
Today, we’re telling Ruthie that we want to be more than what we are now. What that looks like exactly, I don’t know. But I do know it won’t look the same as the last decade has. Not for me. And not for my baby girl. So, at least for this morning—this last morning of our trip together—I want to stay in our bubble just a little bit longer.
"Roo!" I yell walking down the steps. She wasn't in her room when I peeked in earlier, so my assumption is that she's already on her second bowl of Tootie Fruities.
"Down here!" she calls back from the direction of the kitchen, her words garbled together.Still got it.
I jump down the last two steps onto the landing, an extra spring in my step that I could probably nail down to the adrenaline coursing through my veins. "Whatchya doin?" I ask, striding toward her.
I find her sitting at the island, the box of cereal standing in front of her as she reads the facts on the back the way I've taught her to—the same way Levi and I used to when we were kids. "Brehfas," she mumbles before slurping up another spoonful of rainbow, milk-soaked rings.
I laugh, shaking my head as I walk to the coffeemaker. "Have you seen Tess?"
The words pour out without me even consciously realizing I'm saying them. It's jarring for a second, knowing what I know about today—but it's telling too. Tessa's already so woven into our day, into our family, that asking the question feels natural. And either Ruthie is too invested in solving the riddles on the back of the box to care, or it's natural for her too.
"She's not here," she says casually, nodding toward the counter. My gaze lands on a bright pink sticky note just beneath the coffee mug cabinet. "She left a note."
I whip around—not so naturally—a slight panic ripping through me. Tess doesn't need to be here. We never decided exactly when today we'd be telling Ruthie, and I planned to spend some time with her one-on-one before we dropped the news anyway.
But something about her leaving makes me… uneasy? I pause, trying to decide why. Is it because she didn't tell me? Because it's today? Does my brain immediately race toward the idea that she's having second thoughts about us?
After a moment of this inner turmoil, a lightbulb goes on.
Read the note, genius.
I stride toward the paper, forcing myself to move slower than I'd like, my eyes trailing over Tessa's loopy handwriting as I pluck it off the marble. I read it three times despite the fact that it says exactly seven words.
Gone for the day. See you soon…
They don't do much to calm my thoughts. But as I glaze over the rest of it, those last three dots—next to the small heart at the end—give me more hope than they should.
To be continued.
That's what they tell me—not an end, just a pause. Sure, I'd love to know that she's safe and everything's okay—details, that's all. But my mind latches onto that tiny extension at the end. Those dots and that little shape she didn't have to include but did.
And I realize two things: I trust that she's not bailing on me—on us. And I'm over-analyzing a two-sentence Post-It, stupidly, undeniably… in love with this woman.
Well, damn, Two-Three. Talk about a curveball.
