Page 19 of With You

“I love you,” he says, his voice nothing more than a tired sigh. “If I’m asleep by the time you come out, please wake me up because I’m hungry.”

Laughing, I turn away and focus on making lunch and ignoring his request. If he’s asleep when I’m done, there’s no way I’ll be waking him up, and we both know it.

Grateful that I opened up to Jesse, I grab everything I need for our sandwiches, and bask in the mundane task of making lunch for my husband while our daughter sleeps. Just as I load each one onto a plate, the sound of something vibrating against the counter catches me off guard. Looking around the kitchen, I spot Julian’s cell by the tin of formula, and notice the lit-up screen.

Quickly, I grab the phone and slip it in my pocket before picking up the plates and walking them to Julian. Placing them down on the coffee table, I’m surprised to see Julian awake with the television on, the volume muted.

“I was sure you’d be asleep,” I tell him.

“You’re home,” he says while stroking Reese’s back. He’s undone the carrier enough that it’s still on his body, but she’s no longer covered by it. “I want to hear about your morning at work.”

Unable to help myself, I bend over and kiss him on the forehead.

“I shouldn’t have gone,” I admit, lowering myself to the floor beside him, between the couch and the coffee table. “I needed to clear my head, and I went there instead of talking to you.”

Julian’s brows knit together, my admission catching him off guard. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Before I can reach for our lunch, my pocket vibrates again, reminding me I have his phone.

“Oh,” I add nonchalantly. “This was making some noise in the kitchen. Seems like someone really wants to talk to you.”

I awkwardly raise my hip up off the floor and shove my hand into my front pocket. Dragging it out, it’s unavoidable to see the name sliding across the top of the screen.

I can feel my face scrunch up in confusion as my gaze darts between the screen and Julian, who is looking at me with an expression that undoubtedly matches mine. It’s unexpected and yet somehow a coincidence, but one thing I know for sure is seeing my mother’s name on the screen is definitely unwelcome.

JULIAN

With my cell in Deacon’s hand, and the look of shock turning into complete mortification, I know exactly who’s name is on the screen. The incessant buzz is the only sound between us as he looks at me expectantly, wanting and deserving an explanation.

“She’s been texting me,” I reveal, my voice gentle as I deliver the news. I reach for the phone, decline the call, and switch off my phone, just to ensure we’re not interrupted.

His gaze drifts to Reese before landing back on me, somehow keenly aware of the reasons his mother has now chosen to reach out.

“Come here.” Slowly, I sit up, careful not to wake Reese, knowing it’s inevitable at this point, and make room for him beside me. It takes a minute for him to rejoin the conversation, his mind derailing, his thoughts floating to somewhere I’m not. As he finally settles next to me, I hand him our daughter, who curls up perfectly against his chest, knowing she’ll be the calm to his storm.

“I should’ve told you.” A hand lands on my thigh, silencing me. I know I haven’t done anything wrong, but his touch and close proximity are a relief all the same. I thread my fingersthrough his as he sinks into the couch, tips his head back, and closes his eyes.

“I’ve been thinking about her all day today,” he eventually confesses. “Thinking, maybe I do want to speak to her now that we have Reese…” His voice trails off, replaced with a deep inhale and a loud exhale before continuing. “But when I saw her name on the screen,everythingcame rushing back.”

“We don’t owe her anything,” I remind him. “Youdon’t owe her anything.”

He tips his head to the side, finally looking at me, his blue eyes looking sad and desolate in a way I haven’t seen in years.

“Have you spoken to her?” he asks.

Reese predictably starts to wriggle in his hold before I can answer, and I have to wonder how much of this Band-Aid we can rip off all at once, or is it determined to be the wound that keeps on bleeding.

“I haven’t spoken to her,” I tell him truthfully. “She’s texted. More than once,” I inform. “If she’s calling, I’m assuming she’s getting sick and tired of waiting for me to respond.”

“She wants to meet Reese, doesn’t she?”

My teeth tug at the skin of my lips as I nod, my anxiety over all of this finally rising up to the surface.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

The question is valid, but I’m certain he isn’t going to appreciate my answer. “Because I didn’t want to,” I say too bluntly. “Hasn’t she ruined enough?”

“So what I want for Reese doesn’t matter?”

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