Page 80 of If Only In Our Dreams

“I don’t do anything with corpses,” Robin explained with a sympathetic frown.

“Oh,” both twins said in unison, obviously disappointed.

“Their mother used to work in a funeral home,” I explained to Robin under my breath. “They were on the phone with her earlier this week, and it’s very much on their minds.”

“Oh,” Robin repeated, perkier this time.

“Robin is a musician,” I told the girls, nudging him so that he would eat while I spoke. Rosie frowned, only half interested as she nursed her own pizza slice.

“I like music,” Jane said in her tiny voice.

“I know you do,” I grinned at her. “You have a beautiful voice.” She had a child’s voice. Pure and clear. Something that in my opinion, would always be beautiful. But she didn’t need to know that. Puffing up with pride, Jane smiled at me, her sweet little teeth flashing.

“What do you like to sing?” she asked Robin, addressing him directly.

He choked on his mouthful of pizza in an attempt to finish quicker so he could answer. He looked honored to have been spoken to, which I couldn’t help but find adorable.

“Robin’s eating, darling,” I said gently. “Give him a moment and he’ll answer.”

She nodded seriously, waiting patiently while Robin chewed. When he finished, he set the rest of his slice down and offered her a shy smile that almost perfectly mirrored her own.

“I…” he glanced at me, his cheeks growing pink, “Lately I’ve been interested in love songs.” He seemed to realize what he’d just implied only after the words were out. The pink grew splotchy, traveling down his throat and across his ears as he ducked his head. “I mean…”

“Lovesongs?” Rosie made a gagging sound.

“Rosie,” I admonished softly. “That’s not very nice.”

She wilted, offering Robin an apologetic smile. “Sorry.”

“Um. That’s okay,” Robin replied, smiling right back. “I didn’t used to like love songs either,” he added. “Or Christmas songs. Or happy songs in general.”

I gave his thigh an even tighter squeeze than before and the twins stared at him, enraptured as they waited for him to elaborate. I wanted him to elaborate too, so I didn’t interrupt.

“I used to be angry,” Robin said honestly, a regretful little smile twisting his lips. “Sometimes I still am. But…I try to…um. I mean…I’m trying to do things that make me feel happier now. Rather than things that remind me of the stuff I don’t want to remember.”

“I try not to think about the bug I stepped on,” Rosie told him, looking remorseful. “It died.”

“Oh,” Robin nodded. “I’m…sorry for your loss.”

“Me too,” Rosie agreed. Then she did something I’d never seen her do before with anyone other than me. She leaned up on her tiny little feet, reached across the table, and gave Robin’s hand a squeeze. Her chubby little fingers looked adorable wrapped around his. “I’m sorry for your loss too.”

He looked flabbergasted, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Thanks,” he hummed, squeezing her back.

As quickly as she’d doled out the affection, she took it back, sitting right back down with a dramatic plop. “You have really big feet,” she told Robin, ruining the moment.

She probably meant the height of his shoes, but the comment was so out of pocket that I couldn’t help but snort. Robin laughed too, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he nodded in agreement. “So true,” he hummed, reaching for his pizza slice. “But not as big as your dad’s.”

I choked.

The girls eyed me like twin piranhas as they decided whether or not this was true. And then, unanimously, they both nodded. “Papa has the biggest feet,” they agreed.

“He sure does,” Robin agreed, eyes dancing.

And that was that.

Robin came home with me that night. We shared a glass of wine on the couch. He told me stories about Miles as a little kid, the beach they’d grown up visiting, and I regaled him with tales about my dad and the smiles he had never seemed to run out of.

It was odd.

---