Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 131486 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131486 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
“I’mma leave you to it,” I tell him over my shoulder. “I need to shower. We’re taking the kids to the river.”
A happy “woof” is his only response. I turn to point one finger at him. “I know you love the river. Don’t say I never did anything for you.”
I take the stairs and yell back, “But how could you ever say that when I do literally everything for you?”
I envision an air bubble over Otis’s head that might read Dude, get over yourself.
“Yup,” I say, of course to myself as I strip and turn on the shower. “You’ve lived alone too long.”
The drive from Byrd’s three-bedroom craftsman cottage to the dream house Yasmen and I designed together is less than two minutes, but may as well be separated by a millennium. I loved the chaos of young kids and their friends all over the place all the time. The partnership of managing their lives, of raising them under the same roof. Even though Deja and Kassim bounce between our houses, they spend most of their time at Yasmen’s. Living alone without my kids was one of the biggest adjustments after the divorce. Both only children, Yasmen and I always planned to have at least four kids. By our first anniversary, Yasmen was pregnant with Deja. We waited a little while before Kassim. A few years later, we were excited to do it again. A pain so sharp I draw in a quick breath slices over my heart like a scalpel. I should be used to it by now, the pain, but it always catches me off guard, the freshness of it. After nearly three years, it still hasn’t been dulled by time.
I consider that one more thing to never get over as I pull into Yasmen’s driveway.
“Morning, Josiah!”
The greeting comes from the man standing on the front porch of the house next door, a modern blue-and-gray three-story contrasting with our more traditional white limestone. I get out of the truck and open the back door for Otis, who bounds up the steps of the house where we used to live. He settles in the corner by the swing, his favorite spot.
“Morning, Clint,” I reply to the neighbor who moved in shortly after we did.
Clint’s pale complexion and strawberry blond hair could make him look washed out, but his eyes are vivid blue and color climbs his cheeks. “Saw you last night at Food Truck Friday, but didn’t get a chance to speak.”
Before I can reply, Clint’s husband, Brock, wheels a stroller through their front door and onto the porch, followed by their chocolate Lab, Hershey.
“Josiah,” Brock says, his smile white against his dark skin. “Great event last night. Thank you guys for planning it.”
“That was all Yas, but yeah, it was great.” I nod to the stroller. “Is that Skyland’s newest heartbreaker you got there?”
Both their faces light up and Brock turns the stroller to face me.
“That’s right,” Clint says. “Come meet our Lilian.”
I climb their front steps and peer down into the stroller. Dark eyes set in a perfectly round face with smooth brown cheeks stare back at me. She has a patch of dark, curly hair, looks like she might have gas, and is just about the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. I stretch my finger out, and she grabs it, squealing and kicking.
“She likes you!” Clint says. “She never greets anyone like that. You charmed her.”
I smile, but that sharp pain pinches in my chest again.
“Wanna hold her?” Brock asks, his voice eager.
I don’t want to hold her. Not because Lilian isn’t adorable. She absolutely is. I just avoid babies whenever possible. And of course, it’s not always possible, but holding one…I’m about to refuse, but the happiness and anticipation sketched on both their faces has me stretching my arms out to take her. This was their third time trying to adopt. These guys often keep an eye on Kassim and Deja for us. They’re over for dinner and have our family over all the time. They’re good friends and I can’t dim their light because I have shit I’ve never dealt with—at this rate, probably won’t ever deal with—that makes it hard for me to hold a baby.
So I take her.
On instinct, I tuck the swaddling blanket around her tighter when it loosens. She fits perfectly into the crook of my arm, the same way Kassim and Deja did. The memory of when I last held a baby comes rushing up at me like the ground when you trip and fall. There’s nothing warm or sweet about that memory, and I tense my jaw against the emotions it stirs in me, the ones I spent the last three years shoving away.
The front door to our house opens, and Yasmen walks out wearing her yoga pants and a fitted top that crops just above her waist, revealing a narrow strip of smooth skin that rich shade of Kelly Rowland brown. She stops short, her gold-flecked eyes dropping from my face to Lilian cradled in my arms. Something arcs between us in the small space separating the two porches, a tension that requires no explanation. I know it’s because of the little girl cradled in my arms.