Page 50 of A Me and You Thing
I laugh and clap my hands. That was pretty darn amazing. I look at Sawyer with new eyes, ones that see there’s more to him than I realized. He might be a bit of a nerd, but he’s a darn cute one.
The next picture he brings up on his phone is a seahorse. He shows the girls and they say, “Seahows.”
Close enough.
Then Josie says, “Daddy is mama.” Jordyn adds, “Yeah. Daddy.”
Sawyer holds up his hand and they each give him a high five. Then he holds out his fist and they each pound their knuckles together.
I didn’t know they could do that either.
“That’s right. A male seahorse is the only male animal that gives birth and cares for their young.”
Like Sawyer. I mean, he didn’t give birth, but he cares for his young. He really is a great father.
I think my feelings for him have been a bit superficial. His handsome good looks and funny banter had always caught my attention.
Underneath it all is a man who is insightful, a man of many layers. A man who feels deeply and loves intensely.
That’s the man I’d like to get to know.
If only he’ll let me in.
I’ll deal with the creepy octopus later.
Chapter Fifteen
Sawyer
ONE YEAR. IT’S been one year since I lost Quinn. Our babies are not babies anymore. They’re nearly two years old now, little toddlers, walking and talking and singing and laughing. All the time. I can’t feel sad when I see them. They light up the room, my home, my life.
I wish Quinn could see them. She’d be so proud.
I kneel down and place a bouquet of sunflowers on Quinn’s grave, her favorite flower.
I think about so many things. Her smile. Her blond halo when she stood in the sun. Her uncontrollable laugh when we watched re-runs of Parks and Rec. Her weird love of movies that made her bawl like a baby. Her addiction to diet Coke from McDonald’s. According to her, it was the only place that got the mixture just right. She loved pedicures, collecting seashells, reading biographies, and buying abstract art. She loved sunshine and pools, sand between her toes and the ocean breeze whipping through her hair. She loved making love below deck in my boat with the ocean rocking our world.
I loved it too. All of it. She rocked my world.
I haven’t forgotten a thing about her. I miss her quirks, her little idiosyncrasies—her addiction to Chapstick, her love of eating olives straight out of the jar, the way she used to French braid her hair to keep it off her face, and her obsession with cooking with different herbs and spices.
Her Quinn Speeches. Man, I miss those, maybe even most of all. She was wise beyond her years. I adored listening to her deep thoughts.
Her memory is fresh in my mind, even if our relationship is over.
She was my other half. Without her, I feel as though part of me has been ripped away and I’m still reeling in shock. The same as if I’d had an arm or leg removed very suddenly. The phantom pain that makes an amputee feel certain their leg or arm is still there applies to my situation.
I always feel her with me. She’s there. I swear she is. Late at night, I often feel her hand on my arm, stroking me softly. It awakens me from a deep sleep, and I find myself reaching for her, only to come up empty. During the day, I hear her voice in the distance or I catch a whiff of her perfume. Sometimes I’m so sure she’s there, I turn and look for her.
But she’s nowhere to be seen.
Phantom pain is real. I feel it every day. Because the most important part of me is missing.
Life should’ve stopped without her. The world should’ve ended, stopped twirling on its axis.
Instead, life went on. It felt like it went on without me, and I resented everyone and everything. I resented laughter or happiness or joy of any kind. It felt so wrong.
That resentment has mellowed. Only just. The heartache isn’t gone; I have simply become anesthetized to life.
