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“Already trying to be a man.”
I look over to find my brother stepping through the kitchen.
“Hey.” I squint, looking him over. “I didn’t know you were up.”
He nods, comes to sit beside me, and as soon as Deaton spots him, he smiles around the nipple of the bottle. Mason chuckles. “What’s up, my man?”
“Or maybe you didn’t know I was up. Mase?”
He shrugs, falling into the chair on the couch beside me. “I walk over in the mornings sometimes. Parker’s gone for work a lot and Kenra stays busy too.”
My eyes narrow, but he says nothing else.
Mason looks from the baby to me, his features softening. “I was wondering when you’d make it down here.”
“Yeah,” I whisper, running my fingers over Deaton’s soft hair. “Me too.”
Holding an infant brings a sense of peace like nothing else can. It’s as if time slows, and your lungs open beyond their ability. It’s like holding your breath and breathing deep at the same time, an unmatchable warmth that fills you from head to toe.
“You okay?” my brother whispers.
“I am,” I answer honestly, my hand tingling as I run the pad of my thumb over the baby’s soft cheeks. “I wish I would have spent more time with him over the last few weeks.”
I look to my brother, and he nods, but a small frown builds as he stares at the little boy in my arms. “If you did, it uh, might make it a little harder for you to leave tomorrow.”
“Is it?” I wonder.
He looks to me.
“Is it going to be harder for you to leave tomorrow?”
Mason’s chest rises, but again, speaks not a word, and worry washes over me.
“Mase…” I shake my head. “She’s not ready.”
“I know.” His eyes fall to Deaton.
Several minutes go by, and it’s not until I’m lowering the baby into his bassinet, sound asleep, that Mason speaks again.
“What are you going to do, Ari?” he asks. “About Noah and Chase?”
Shaking my head, I turn to him. “I don’t know.”
“What’s your heart telling you?”
Shame falls over me as I whisper, “That I want what I always have and that maybe it’s finally mine.”
“That he is finally yours, you mean?” I look down and he continues, “I know you, and I know learning a little bit about you and Noah has made things harder for you.”
“I just… I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
Mason sighs, a gentleness falling over him. “I know you don’t, but no matter what happens, someone gets hurt, sister. It’s inevitable.”
“Yeah, I know.”
My parents have always said you should follow your heart, that it will never lead you astray, but mine’s malfunctioning.
Because if your heart is the leader, your body and mind should fall in line.
Mine have not, and I have no idea what to do about it.
Cam and I spend the day unpacking while my mom works her magic in our little kitchen, restocking and organizing all the crap we simply tossed into the cupboards in a hurry. She cooks steaks and mashed potatoes, and the boys come over for our first dinner back.
A few hours later, once everyone has gone home, I lock myself in my room.
I open my window to better hear the pitter patter of the rain and pull the calendar from under my bed before settling on top of it.
You can do this.
I give myself a little pep talk, and then I flip it back to September.
Outside of a few test reminders and game day reminders, as if I needed them, there isn’t much, so I flip to the next page.
My mouth falls open, and I draw it closer to my face.
After the first week, there’s at least two days colored in, little hints to plans I had made written in. Plans I have no idea if I followed through with or not, but the little doodles on the notes section in the bottom makes me think I did. But then I turn the page again, and I nearly lose my breath. October was nothing compared to November.
Cooking with Noah.
Movie night with Noah.
Road trip with Noah.
Noah’s game.
About halfway through the month, I stopped writing in his name, but the plans look very much the same. The entire month is filled, the doodles on the bottom of unrecognizable foods and familiar movie lines, a mountain and splashes of water.
Of hearts with smiley faces.
I turn to December, and there’s a pull in my chest.
I shake my head, reading over everything, and unease coils around my shoulders when a few days in, it begins to look very different.
The words ‘I’m sorry’ are scribbled a few times, broken hearts and small flames littering the edges.
“Something happened,” I whisper to myself.
But what?
Did he leave me?
Hurt me?
Were we even dating or was it… what were we?
And then I get to the last entry on the page.
December twenty-third, so after the accident, the words pick up the CB, with an address attached.
