And that doesn’t just disappear.
My chest tightens as I breathe in the candy-smell of Mila’s hair. As I breathe in a past I missed and a future I never will. As I breathe in heartbreak and hope.
Mila suddenly gasps and wriggles of my arms. “Son? Dadda son?”
My eyes flick between her and Sofie. Sofie laughs on a sob.
“Song,” she whispers. “She wants you to sing her a song.”
“Oh! A song! Let’s see . . .” I swoop Mila up in my arms. “Row, row, row, your boat . . .”
“No!” She laughs anyway. “Dadda son.”
“One of yours,” Sofie clarifies, hugging herself. “She doesn’t like nursery rhymes. She’s your kid, for sure.”
Mila grins.
“Okay, what one?” Am I seriously asking a two-year-old what to sing? “Oh, I know. This one.”
I hum the melody and she squeals happily. I take that as a yes. I launch into the opening line, singing softly. I know it because I wrote it, and I know Sofie knows it, too, because she was there when I did.
That night, she switched out half the words because she thought they sounded dumb. I never got a chance to tell her she was right.
“And forever’s just another day, unless you’re there to see it with me . . .”
I look over to the door as a flash of blonde runs through it. I stare at the empty space, still singing to Mila.
“Tomorrow’s just an empty space, unless your smile’s there to fill it. And tonight’s just a dark hole, unless your eyes are there to break it . . .”
The song I perfected when she left, the one I poured all of me into. And that’s why it works, and why it hurts, and probably why Mila is humming along in time.
If I know anything about Sofie, and I do, I know she would have taken the words and spun them into something else, because that’s what she always did.
“Dadda son!” Mila cries when I finish, and I laugh.
“Can I have a drink first?”
She huffs. “Yeah.”
I put her down and laugh again, heading into the kitchen. I grab a glass from the cupboard and run the tap. When I cut off the water I hear it.
The unmistakable sound of Sofie crying. I lean against the counter and down the water. I don’t have to soothe her.
I don’t owe her a thing. Even if it is tugging at my heart to hear her cry so hard when I obviously wasn’t supposed to.
It’s not my wound to heal.
It’s hers.
I’ve dreamed about it a thousand times. The moment when Conner would meet Mila. I’ve played out a hundred different scenarios, run over the idea more times than I can count, imagined the smiles. Like a fairy tale, I had so many variations on the theme.
But I wasn’t prepared for this.
I wasn’t prepared for seeing the two loves of my life together.
I never could have been prepared for the guilt and the love and the pure beauty of her in his arms.
Then he started singing, and the rawness of his voice washed over me, covering my skin in goose bumps, making my hair stand on end. It clamped down on me and I froze, held hostage by the inflections in his tone. It let me go just as quickly, and in seconds I found myself out here.
My back against the door and my eyes screwed shut. Like having my eyes closed means I can’t still hear him faintly. Singing that song, the one I told him was utter shit because his words were all messed up.
I smile and I cry at the same time, because I never wanted to hurt anyone. I thank my lucky stars that Mila’s too young to understand all of this heartache . . . and that I made the decision to come back now.
I wipe at my eyes. I look through the kitchen window at the clock on the wall. No more hiding out here in the yard—it’s lunchtime. No doubt I’ll have a fight on my hands, but it’s still lunchtime.
I push up off the floor and open the back door. Conner’s still singing, but it sounds like he finally managed to convince Mila to do nursery rhymes.
Well, unless Dirty B. are releasing a new version of “Old MacDonald,” that is.
Somehow I don’t think it’s their style. Tate would shit a watermelon.
I lean against the doorframe and watch as Mila moos like a cow. A smile curves my lips. Through the pain, she’s the biggest calm, the one who can make it all go away.
Babies are beautiful that way.
“Mama!” she shrieks. “Hungy!”
“Come on, then. Let’s get some food in your belly, little one.”
“Do you want to go somewhere?” Conner turns and looks up at me from the floor. “We could take her out.”
I look down at her and shake my head. “I’d rather the whole world didn’t know about her just yet.”
“In this town? You think they already don’t?”
“The only people who know are your family.” I smile sadly. “Leila’s as much of a gossip as the next person, but she’s also loyal. No one else knows. Not that she’s yours.”
“Mama com!”
“I’m coming!” I hurry after her. “Sandwich?”
Mila shakes her head.
“Uh, yes. Sandwich, then stars.”
She purses her lips in disapproval and eyes me as I make the sandwich. I cut it into four squares, put it on her plate, and put it on her high-chair tray. She giggles when I lift her into the high chair.
“Sars?” she asks hopefully.
“Sandwich,” I say sternly, pointing at it.
She huffs again but picks up a square. I catch Conner’s eye in the doorway and he raises an eyebrow.
“Welcome to Divaland,” I mutter, heading back into the kitchen.
He laughs low, a sound that trickles down my spine in a series of shivers. “That bad?”
“Oh, this is a good day. Wait until you see bath time.” I point to the kettle. “You want a coffee?”
“I’ll make them.” He tries to step past me.
“No, it’s okay. Just answer the question.”
“Yes, and I’ll make them.” He grabs my arms and moves me out the way. I huff. “That’s where she gets it from.” He nods at me knowingly.
I lean against the counter and smile to myself. “Then you should be afraid, because I never huff unless I’m around you.”
He glances at me over his shoulder as he spoons coffee into the mugs. “That’s because I’m an infuriating bastard.”
My eyebrow quirks. “You said it, not me.”
Conner hands me the mug. “Wise of you not to verbally agree, don’t you think?”