Page 8 of The Thought of You

OWEN

I cup my hand around Huck’s soft head and bounce him with each slow step, comforting the little guy in the best way I’ve learned over the last few months.

He seems to appreciate an easy rhythm as his tears dry on his plump cheeks.

“That’s right, little man. Slow and steady wins the race,” I whisper as I pace the living room with him resting in the crook of my arm. “You’ll hear a lot of wise, wise words that are not at all clichés from your favorite uncle.” I chuckle as Huck makes a few incoherent sounds. I point to the TV, where an old baseball game flashes back at us. “Did you see that?” I ask him, as if the seven-month-old understands. “Did you see the way he slid into third?”

The TV is on mute so as to avoid riling up the little guy, who does not yet enjoy loud noises, but I imagine the commentators. The cheers. The crack of the bat against the ball.

But he’ll learn to love it. All in good time, if I have anything to say about it.

Baby steps.

“Someday, I’m going to teach you how to play baseball,” I continue as the boy’s big brown eyes stare back at me. His cheeks are still red from his tormented fit earlier, and my heart cracks as I add, “We’re going to play catch and Jenga, and I’ll teach you how to swim too. Your mom’s great at many things, but she’s a terrible swimmer. I’ve tried to teach her, but she’s rather stubborn. Prefers to lie out on a towel with the tip of her toes in the water, instead.”

Huck blows a spit bubble, which slides down his chin, and I’d like to think his smile is because he genuinely understands me and how much he’s loved.

Instantly, my mind fast-forwards to ten years from now, when I’ll tell him stories of his mother that she won’t otherwise share. Of our childhood with our twin sisters. Of his grandma and grandpa raising four unruly children.

I imagine Huck laughing at the silly games we played and the pranks we pulled. Well, I did most of the latter, which I will, of course, teach him too. He’s not even a year old yet, but I can tell he’s got jokester blood in him.

Most of all, I picture the little guy with family surrounding him, always. He might not know his own father, but he will have the support and love of a big-hearted family, that’s for damn sure.

The only other thing we take almost as seriously as our loyalty to one another is Jenga. My family takes the game more seriously than heart health and trimmed lawns. We’ve been playing ever since I suggested it at eleven years old. At the time, I just wanted the twins, Laurel and Lottie, to stop fighting, and Jenga was the only distraction in the house that we could all play. Whit was too young to join us back then, but she’s definitely made up for lost time ever since, kicking our asses more often than not.

On the TV, the player takes a swing, launching the ball into the outfield, and at about the same time, the door swings open. My youngest sister storms inside like a tornado, her large bag swinging from side to side as she unties the flannel shirt from her waist.

Once she slumps it all into a pile on the middle of the couch, she flips her wild hair to the side and practically leaps toward Huck like she hasn’t seen him in months, when it’s really just been a couple of hours.

It’s what I love about her as a mother—her affection for her son is out of this world.

“How are my two favorite guys?” She beams as she peppers kisses along the back of Huck’s head.

“What about Dad?” I joke.

“He’s my favorite grandpa.” She pats my shoulder as she sidesteps us and makes her way to the kitchen. “I got back here as quickly as possible. Was Huck okay? His belly seemed to be bothering him earlier.”

“The gas coming out of this tiny body was killer,” I say. “I’ll just remember a mask next time.”

Huck giggles like he appreciates my joke. He reaches his tiny hand up to grip my thumb, and my knees buckle. The heart certain people at work don’t believe I have swells until it crowds my chest.

“Shhh,” I coo as Whitney rifles through the kitchen cabinets. I rock Huck from side to side until his grip on my thumb loosens, and his eyelids flutter, teetering on the cusp of sleep.

According to Whit, he didn’t nap as long as usual today, but he needs to eat before he tuckers out for the night.

“Easy,” I say, projecting my voice toward my noisy sister the best I can without jarring him.

“I am trying…” She climbs onto the counter and pulls a sippy cup from a jungle of other tumblers on the shelf. She keeps producing them like a long string of ribbons a magician pulls out of his sleeve. As she arranges each one next to the other on the counter by her knee, she huffs. “To get these,” she finishes as she lands back on her feet and plucks a cup from the row. “Dad probably put these back there. No one else in this house can reach so far back.”

I continue rocking the swaddled bundle in my arms. It’s true. The only men who frequent this house are Dad and me. And Huck. But even though he seems to be growing fast, we still have plenty of time before he’s tall enough to reach those cabinets.

A few minutes later, Whitney tests the milk’s temperature on her arm, and once she’s satisfied, she brings a full bottle over. “Thank you for coming by so last minute. Mom and Dad had some housewarming party to go to, and I’ve had to stop bothering with the twins. I can always count on you, though.”

I squeeze her shoulder, fortunate for the opportunity to live nearby, thanks to the recent changes I’ve made to my life.

“Lottie always insists I call her to help, but when I do, she practically chews my head off. She’s focused on the studio, which is great, but she’s becoming worse than Laurel in constantly reminding us how busy she is.”

I chuckle at her playful eye roll. I know exactly what she’s talking about when it comes to this facet of our twin sisters.

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