Page 100 of Fated

Aaron’s there.

He’s holding Sean in his arms, rocking him, running his hand over his back, pacing the length of the small tile-floored living room.

Aaron’s back is to me, his head tucked next to Sean’s. He’s in a T-shirt, jeans, his feet bare and his black hair rumpled.

Sean’s head rests on Aaron’s shoulder. His cheeks are red and wet from tears, his eyes swollen. He tosses his head back and forth and lets out a heart-wrenching whimper. His ragged bunny hangs from his arms.

The wind continues to howl, raging against the house, yanking at the metal shutters closed over the windows. The house moans and Sean whimpers again.

Then above the noise I hear Aaron.

He’s singing a quiet, low melody that I can barely make out. It’s a whispered, hushed song. “Don’t cry, baby, don’t cry, little one, your dad is here, he’ll make it all right.”

Sean clutches Aaron’s shirt and buries his face in his shoulder. Then Aaron turns. When he sees me standing in the threshold he stops. His hand stills on Sean’s back.

Something flashes in his eyes. As quick as lightning. Impossible to decipher.

“Hey,” he says.

At his word Sean twists in his arms. When he catches sight of me he bends toward me, holds out his chubby arms, and cries, “Mamamama,” as if he’s telling me all about how scared he is, how terrible the noise is, how much he needs comfort. And once he says it, his lower lip wobbles and he says, “Mama.”

I hurry forward, taking him in my arms. He cuddles into me, burying his face in my long cotton T-shirt. His cheeks are damp and his tears wet my T-shirt. I wrap my arms around him and take his weight.

“It’s okay,” I whisper, rocking him. “You’re okay.”

Aaron watches me, his face clear of emotion. Something prickles in the air between us—something electric and storm-like.

I want to ask him where we are, what happened, but instead I rub slow circles over Sean’s back and rock him as I pace the small living room.

It doesn’t take long for me to realize where we are. The furniture is overstuffed floral rattan. There’s a weathered wooden coffee table with a collection of conch shells and sea glass in a bowl. Near the window is a tall bookshelf. The bookshelf is key. On it are two dozen framed photographs. Most of them are of Aaron—from baby to teen—with his parents, with friends, with his Grandma Essie. A few are of Aaron with Amy as a baby. The rest are of a man and a woman who look like Aaron. He has his mom’s eyes, his dad’s height.

It looks like for the storm we’ve moved inland to his parents’ house. It makes sense. The cottage is so close to the beach it would be dangerous if there was a storm surge.

As I turn I glance at him. He’s watching me, the quiet from the last time back in place.

“When did he wake?” I ask.

Aaron looks at the clock hanging on the wall near the kitchen table. “Eleven.”

It’s three now. Aaron’s been up with him for four hours. “You should’ve come for me.”

It’s always better to have someone to share the load.

He frowns. “I did. You told me to let you sleep. Said you were dreaming.”

Is that what I said?

I shake my head. “I’m sorry. You should get some sleep. I’ll stay with him.”

Aaron rubs a hand down his face and smothers a yawn. “I’ll make you a coffee. Room temp, instant, but a coffee all the same.”

“Make two,” I tell him.

He flickers a smile at me as he crosses to the tiny kitchen.

Sean grows heavy, and soon he feels as heavy as Mila when she was five and too tired to walk any further. She’d always beg to be carried and I’d hoist her in my arms, gasping at how big she’d grown.

His head has lolled to rest against my chest, his mouth hangs open, and his eyelashes flutter on the edge of sleep. His body is soft and boneless against me. Slowly I pace the room, swaying him in my arms, whispering, “Shhh shhh shhh,” until finally his fingers loosen from my T-shirt and his hand falls free. His head drops forward and he lets out a little sleep whimper.

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