She peers over my shoulder, catching a glimpse of Sophia still sleeping. She smiles. “She have a good time?”
I smile back. “She’s pooped. Fell asleep before I pulled out of Teeny’s driveway.”
She smirks before turning to face the wall of plastic totes lining one side of the garage. A few are on the ground, already sifted through and the lids placed on top askew. It looks like she was looking for something in the sea of school supplies and junk that’s piled up since we moved in, but she throws in the towel with a deferring huff and turns toward the car. “I’ll get her inside.”
“Were you looking for something?”
“Yeah,” she answers, twisting her lips to one side. “I had a box of supplies one of the first-grade teachers donated at the beginning of the year, and I can’t seem to find it.”
“Do you know what the box looks like?”
“Clear. With a black lid.” That doesn’t really narrow down the search considering over half of our totes fit the description.
Regardless, I respond with an easygoing, “I can look for it.”
Her miffed expression softens with my offer. “You don’t have to.”
“It’s fine,” I assure. “If you want to get Sophia, I can keep looking.”
She looks at Sophia again, fluttering eyes and mouth slightly ajar. A sure sign she most likely won’t wake up until morning.
“Thank you,” Kendall says softly.
I nod. “Sadie already showered her, so she just needs to go to bed.”
“Okay.” She tiptoes over to the back passenger door and opens it slowly. She’s careful as she unbuckles the seat belt and scoops Sophia into her arms. She gingerly cradles her body against her chest, placing soft kisses to her temple as she walks into the house.
I start to sort the boxes, lifting the lids and combing through the jumbled items stuffed inside with no rhyme or reason. A broken DVD player I assumed was plugged into a defective electrical outlet the last time I used it and a blender pitcher,no lid. My old textbooks from grad school with a bag full of crochet supplies from when Kendall took a shot at diy Christmas presents. Something about handmade presents and how people prefer a sentimental gift over impersonal ones. The last box I looked through has some things from my old apartment. A dusty desk lamp with some key chains and coffee mugs. And a stuffed owl. The once vibrant purple color is now a shade of lavender, and the glasses perched on its triangle nose is crooked.
“Any luck?”
I look over my shoulder at the same time Kendall’s eyes land on what I’m holding, and her face falls. “Uh, no. Sorry.”
“Where did you find that?”
I wave the owl in her direction. “With some of my things.”
She reaches for it, and I hand it over. Like I’m offering a small sliver of my heart. The part that never grew back. She pets it, running her hand over the side, and adjusts the glasses so it sits upright instead of lopsided. “I haven’t seen this little guy in?—”
“Nine years.”
“Give or take a week or two,” she says morosely. Sarcasm that isn’t bitter but scornful bookends her small attempt at a joke, more closely aligning with self-deprecation. “It’s been a long time.”
I nod.
“Feels like yesterday.”
“Yeah.”
She bites her lip, forcing back a frown. “I guess…life just happened. We just kept going and…”
I reach up and cup the side of her face. I take a chance, knowing she might shy away or even get upset. But she doesn’t. Instead, she leans into my palm, and my heart squeezes. I want more. I want to take a mile when she’ll most likely only give me an inch. I want to be selfish and heedless for once.
“I can put it back,” I whisper, my offer tender and vulnerable.
“It’s okay,” she tells me, shaking her head. “I want to hold on to it.” Her wide eyes glisten, shimmering like she’s unsure. Like this, my hand on her face and her letting it sit there to relearn how she feels, is so foreign. So new and unacquainted and ambivalent.
“Are you sure?” I don’t even know what I’m asking. If it’s to make sure she doesn’t want me to stuff the owl back in the hidden corner of our home. Or if I’m asking if this is okay. Me touching her like I was never not allowed to.
