Page 70 of All of Me

Owen shifts Ruby’s car seat from the van, adjusting the blanket around her before offering Shelly a polite smile. “All good things, I hope.”

“Only the best,” she assures him, giving his arm a quick squeeze before gesturing toward the house. “Come inside, both of you. You must be exhausted after that long drive.”

Owen carries Ruby carefully as we step inside, the familiar scent of fresh coffee and cinnamon wrapping around us like a hug.

“Well, you’re here now, and that’s what matters,” Shelly says, already moving toward the kitchen. “Your dad’s flight was delayed. He won’t be home until this afternoon, but you’ve got time to settle in.”

I feel a pang of disappointment. It’s been months since I’ve seen Dad, and I was looking forward to having him meet Owen right away. Still, I nod, shaking it off.

“You two should take a walk or do some shopping or something,” Shelly suggests, already reaching for Sara’s hand. “Stretch your legs after being in the car for so long. I’ll keep an eye on the girls for you.”

I hesitate, glancing back at Ruby in her car seat. She stirs but doesn’t wake, her tiny fingers curling into a loose fist. “Thanks, Shelly,” I say after a moment, “but I think I’ll take Ruby with me. I’m breastfeeding, and I didn’t bring my pump.”

Shelly gives me a knowing smile, a look that makes me feel understood without explanation. “Of course, sweetie. Go have some time together. Sara and I will have plenty of fun here, won’t we?”

I glance at Sara, who is already at the coffee table, rummaging through a drawer of crayons and markers. She doesn’t even look up, waving me off like I’m a minor inconvenience to her new artistic plans.

I smile, letting myself relax a little. “She’s going to love being here,” I say softly, more to myself than to Shelly.

Shelly nods, her voice warm as she watches Sara settle in. “You all will. Now go on. Take a breather.”

The bell above the thrift shop door jingles as we step inside. The scent of aged books and worn leather invade my senses, making me feel nostalgic even though I’ve never been here before. The shop is dimly lit, the warm glow of string lights weave through old furniture and racks of mismatched clothing.

“This place is perfect,” I say, tugging on Owen’s hand. He grins, his other hand adjusting Ruby’s sling where she’s snoozing against his chest. Her little face peeks out, peaceful and unbothered by her surroundings. It feels like a proper date, even with little Ruby tagging along.

Owen’s eyes light up as he scans the room, making a beeline for a rack of old t-shirts. It’s his usual routine whenever we visit a place like this. He starts flipping through the shirts, reading aloud the slogans or logos: a local high school team here, someone’s little league coaching shirt there. It’s like watching him on a treasure hunt. His growing collection of random shirts has become one of my favorite quirks about him, not just because they’re fun, but because they spark the best conversations. Strangers are always stopping us to ask about the shirt he’s wearing, whether it’s from a town they recognize or a team they used to coach. Sometimes, I’ll borrow one to wear atBrooked & Brewed,and without fail, customers ask if I’m related to someone on the team whose name is slapped across my back. It’s silly, but it’s one of those little things that feels uniquelyus.

“Can’t have too much of a good thing,” he says, winking. It’s endearing to see him invested in something as mundane as thrift shopping. He’s not just looking for clothes but for stories, pieces of someone else’s life to add to his own.

I wander over to a shelf lined with vintage cameras with lenses clouded with dust. One in particular catches my eye. It’s an old Polaroid with a faded rainbow stripe across the front.

“Owen,” I call, holding it up. “What do you think? Should we start documenting our adventures to show pictures to the kids someday?”

He looks up from the rack, a lopsided grin spreading across his face. “Absolutely. We’ll be the coolest parents ever.”

“Maybe one day, we will look back on this and think we are quirky and cute rather than just cheap,” I tease while I fiddle with the camera only to discover it’s missing film.

“Quirky and cute sounds about right,” he says, closing the distance between us. He shifts Ruby slightly in her sling and takes the camera from my hands to examine it. “What do you think? Decoration or project?”

“Project,” I say without hesitation. “I’ll find the film somewhere. You’ll just have to wear this Jazz Fest 1981 shirt while we take pictures to complete the aesthetic.”

“I hear 1981 was a good year,” he replies with a laugh.

I tuck the Polaroid under my arm and follow him to the counter, where he adds the Jazz Fest shirt to our pile of treasures. As we check out, Ruby stirs, her tiny fist poking out of the sling, but she doesn’t wake. Owen glances down at her, his face softening when he looks at her.

It’s moments like this that make me wonder, not for the first time, what it would have been like if Ruby were his biological child. I know it doesn’t make a difference to him, but the thought still lingers. I imagine what our future might look like. Will he actually want to marry me someday? Have kids together? We’ve talked about marriage before, in passing, but I don’t know how sincerely he means it when he says he’d be open to getting married again someday—especially since we both swore we’d never do it again. It feels almost too good to believe, like I’ll wake up one day and realize this has all been some perfect dream. We already share three children between us, but I’m not sure if the idea of adding more intrigues or terrifies him.

I should probably ask him about it eventually.

He’s meeting my dad today, and I can see the pressure he’s putting on himself about it. It’s there in the way his shoulders tighten whenever we talk about dinner, in the slight falter of his smile when he thinks I’m not watching.

We’ve been through so much in the short time we’ve been together, and it hasn’t even been six months. The intrusive thought creeps in: What if someday he realizes this isn’t what he truly wants? What if, by then, my girls have grown so attached to him that it shatters not just my heart, but theirs too? The possibility lingers in the back of my mind, making every moment precious and fragile.

“Ready to go, babe?” he asks, his voice pulling me from the spiral of my thoughts.

I nod, forcing a smile as we step out into the lively streets of New Orleans. Music drifts from a nearby street performer, the notes vibrant and alive, and the smell of fresh beignets fills the air. Owen swings the bag of thrift shop treasures playfully as we walk, the corner of the Jazz Fest shirt sticking out obnoxiously bright against the muted tones of the old city.

I let myself lean into him, tucking the camera under my arm, and decide to let the rest of the day be simple. Owen might be nervous, but I was too when I met his family. He will be himself and charm my dad and everything will be perfect.

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