For a minute, we just existed in the same room, two men who had made an enormous, possibly insane decision and were now waiting to see if the house would approve.
I broke first. “You hungry?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I could eat.”
I rummaged the fridge and found the last of the casserole Jojo had made two days back, the one with sausage and something green in it. I nuked two plates, set them down, and sat across from him.
We ate in silence, but it wasn’t awkward. It was the kind of silence that follows a big noise, like the air was still recalibrating to the new normal.
After a few bites, he said, “Thank you.”
I shook my head. “You don’t have to keep saying that.”
“I know,” he said, “but I’m going to.”
We finished eating, cleared the plates, and made a half-assed attempt at cleaning up. The baby slept on, the music box tune repeating every five minutes like a cheap mantra.
Eventually, he stood, stretched, and said, “I should get some sleep.”
I nodded. “You know where everything is.”
He hesitated, then looked at me, eyes clearer than they’d been all day. “If you want,” he said, “I mean, if you don’t mind—could you keep the door open? Just a little?”
I didn’t smile, but I wanted to. “Yeah,” I said. “I can do that.”
He nodded, then padded upstairs, footsteps barely audible on the old wood.
I watched him go, then checked on the baby one more time before heading to my own room.
The night was cold and dry, and the house creaked and settled around us, as if giving its blessing.
I lay on my back in the dark, hands folded over my chest, and let the day run through me like a film in slow motion.
I didn’t know what tomorrow would look like. I didn’t know if this was going to work, or if we’d have to pack up and run again before the snow even melted.
But I knew this: I was married. I meant it.
And so, apparently, did he.
It was enough to fall asleep on.
* * * *
The next day didn’t so much dawn as stumble into being, the sun dragging itself over the rim of the butte with the hung over reluctance of a man who had promised he’d quit.
I woke up the way I always did: mouth dry, head full of static, and the dull ache in my shoulder that tracked the weather more faithfully than the ten-day ever could.
Emilio was already crying, a wet, full-throated protest that rattled the old air vent and bounced off every wall between my room and his.
I got up, feet on cold wood, and shuffled down the hallway. Jojo was already there, moving soft and efficient, with the kind of speed that made it look like he’d always been awake and was just waiting for the rest of us to catch up.
He handed me the baby with a quick report—“two ounces in, half a diaper out, mild case of grump”—and a look that said, “You owe me again.” I grunted my gratitude and took over, settling Emilio on my forearm and jostling him just enough to shush the worst of it.
The morning followed its own predictable rhythm: bottle, burp, change, bounce, repeat. Somewhere in the middle, Jojo made toast and left half a pot of coffee to burn on the warmer. I poured myself a mug and drank it black, standing at the sink and watching the thin winter sunlight struggle in through the crusted glass.
Liam came down the stairs just after seven, hair wild and eyes swollen from sleep. He moved through the kitchen like a man walking on a frozen lake, every step measured against a thousand possible disasters. He offered to take the baby, but I could see the hesitation in his hands, so I kept hold of Emilio and let Liam handle breakfast instead.
He found the cereal, two bowls, spoons. He poured milk with the precision of a man who’d never been allowed to spill. We ate in silence, the kind that fills a room with its own gravitational pull. Emilio was the only one not participating, eyes locked on the light fixture as if it contained the answer to his problems.
