Page 95 of This Broken Heart

At some point in the morning, she must have slipped out of bed. I wake up alone, with the faint sounds of laughter coming from the kitchen. I force my heavy limbs to support my weight, tugging on a pair of sweats.

I stop in the doorway, watching them for a few minutes without being noticed.

My gaze swings to the front window where I can see the empty drive. My mom must have already slipped away. Sneaky little devil. I turn my gaze back to the kitchen.

Erin’s making cinnamon rolls again. She knows I like them. And despite the fact that I was ‘the biggest dick’ to her last night, she’s still trying to find ways to comfort me.

I don’t fucking deserve this woman.

She’s letting both kids help, something Ana probably never would have done.

Ana was very type A. Liked things nice and neat and orderly. Trace has flour all over his shirt. Maven is actively dumping sugar on the floor. And Erin is just taking it all in stride. I appreciate her more than I could ever adequately put into words, but a tiny slice of resentment cuts through me.

It’s like she’s showing Ana up. The kids’ mom. I’d rather keep Ana on her pedestal. She’s achieved sainthood in my memories and these perfect little things Erin does draw unfavorable comparisons.

I know I’m being unreasonable.

Sometimes, my moods swing so fast, even I get dizzy. Knowing it’s not right, knowing it’s hurtful, that doesn’t make the feelings go away. It just makes me feel like an asshole on top of everything else.

I’ve found the best way to deal with these things is in private. That way, there’s no collateral damage.

Spinning away before anyone notices me, I walk back to the bathroom.

What I need is a hot shower. I step into the bathroom, cranking the water as hot as possible. While steam slowly fills the room, I notice I’m out of soap. Flinging open the cabinets, I stumble across a purple toiletry bag I don’t recognize. Thoughtlessly tugging it open, I come across a little arsenal of skincare products, like little vials of potion. Makeup, too.

Eyeliner.

Red lipstick.

These are Erin’s things. She’s been living at my place for a few months now and she’s still living out of a travel bag like a vagabond.

My gaze is drawn to Ana’s half of the sink. Her own collection of products gather dust. I haven’t had the heart to touch her things. It’s always felt like if I didn’t move anything, I could pretend that she never really left us.

But, eventually, I’ll need to move on. And in the meantime, I’ve asked this person to live in my house and I haven’t even given her space to call her own.

Guilt suffuses my body and by the time I’ve stepped out of the shower, I’ve made up my mind. Dressing methodically, I pull on my boots and slip outside.

I find a box in the garage and carefully store Ana’s things away. Maybe one day, Maven will want to see what color of lipstick her mother wore. Trace might want to smell her perfume, jogging long-buried memories. I’ll keep them safely tucked away for the kids. I want to protect her memory for them.

But I also want to make room for Erin.

And as much as it all hurts, it feels like maybe I’m finally taking a step forward.

63.

Erin

Flying out of Lincoln is a breeze.

The airport only has one terminal. You really can’t mess it up.

But Josh hasn’t flown since high school and the kids have never been on an airplane.

I take charge of the boarding passes and navigating security. Josh acts as my pack mule. Somehow, he manages to wrangle three carry-ons and a two-year-old in those massive arms.

We take up an entire row on the plane, but once we’re in the air, we condense into three seats. Maven and Trace snuggle up in the window seat, watching Disney movies on their tablet. I glance over at Josh, his enormous frame folded up in the tiny plane seat, and laugh. “How you doing, big guy?”

He gives me a wan smile. “Why are all these seats child-sized?”