Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 98846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
“Obviously. I thought that was a given.” I brush her hair away from her face. “Is that a yes?”
“Yes. It’s a yes. I’ll bring my chaos into your calm.”
I place a soft kiss on her lips. “There’s no place I’d rather be than the eye of your storm.”
EPILOGUE
MY KING
Queenie
Six years later
The doorbell rings at 3:45 p.m. I put my paintbrush in the mason jar of water and walk as quickly down the hall to the front door as possible, which isn’t very fast, since I have a small bowling ball hanging off the front of my body and it’s slowly becoming more of a waddle than a walk these days.
Kingston has knocked me up for the second time in two years. Scout, our son, is currently having his afternoon nap, but I’m sure he’ll be up soon and looking for entertainment. Thankfully, I have the perfect source standing at the front door.
I throw it open, smiling widely, excited for today’s session. “How was your first day of school?”
Lavender’s long auburn hair is pulled up in a haphazard ponytail with flyaways blowing around her face. She’s dressed in her eclectic style of homemade clothes sourced from old items she tears apart and puts back together again with more flair. Lavender is going to be a very talented seamstress one day.
However, right now she looks more sullen teen than happy-go-lucky ten-year-old. “Boys are stupid.”
“Uh-oh, that doesn’t sound good.”
“Eh, it’s whatever.” She bends and pats my rounded belly. “Hello in there. I hope if you’re a boy, you end up being nothing like the ones in my school.”
“Do you want a snack, or do you just want to get down to it?” I ask.
“I’d like to paint, if that’s okay.”
“Of course it’s okay.” When Lavender’s hands are busy creating, she’s the most chatty; all her feelings and thoughts are channeled into whatever she’s making. She would probably sew her way through our sessions, but the sewing machine is loud and makes it tough to talk, so she generally uses paints or pastels when she comes here.
In the past six years I’ve finished my degree and have gotten my master’s. Kingston and I got married the summer after I graduated.
He was mine and I was his, and he wanted it to be official. He wanted to see me walk down the aisle in a gorgeous dress and recite our vows in front of our friends and his crazy, wild family. And so we did. Then we spent a month traveling, just the two of us.
And now here we are, about to be parents for the second time, and I have my own art therapy studio. Lavender doesn’t always need the weekly sessions, but it’s become our thing over the past few years.
Instead of picking up a paintbrush, she goes over to the massive sheet of paper taped to the wall and gets out the finger paints. Which tells me everything I need to know about her day. The finger paints rarely come out anymore.
I don’t push her to talk right away, allowing her time to warm up and settle in.
“River and I are in different classes.”
Ah, here we go. “And how do you feel about that?”
She swipes her fingers across the page, thin yellow lines converging and twisting before she moves on to red. “Guilty.”
“Why guilty?”
“Because I’m as relieved as I am disappointed.” She drags her red fingertips through the yellow and then swirls up and around. It looks like sunlight and angry wind on fire.
“It’s okay to want space and the opportunity to be your own person.”
“I know.” She pushes her glasses up her nose.
“But?”
“It’s hard when everything is new and different. I want him to be more than my shield from the world.”
“So being in a different class this year will be good for you, maybe?”
“Maybe, probably.”
We spend the next hour talking about her new teacher, her classmates, and the girl in her class who likes the same graphic novel series as she does. She’s made such huge progress over the past six years, and honestly, so have I.
I considered pursuing my PhD, but then I got pregnant again, and as much as it’s a goal for the future, I don’t want to add more to my plate until all my babies are in school. And I have a feeling Kingston isn’t going to want to stop at two, and neither am I.
Scout has been a dream child, and this pregnancy has been amazingly smooth. So if things keep going the way they are, there’s a good chance we’ll end up with a hockey line’s worth of babies.
Kingston arrives home a few minutes after Lavender leaves, her steps a little lighter, her smile brighter. I’m in the art therapy studio, putting away supplies while Scout babbles in his playpen.
Kingston’s huge body fills the doorway of my studio. “How’s my beautiful wife?”