Chapter Text
It wasn’t the whistle—sitting light cold against her chest under an oversized, clean shirt—that struck Melissa as odd when she blinked her eyes open into a wash of spring sunlight. It could’ve been that, sure, considering there was no reason for her clothes to be clean, for her body to move so easily as she jogged a few distracted steps forward.
Hers, but somehow not, which was much stranger than the nylon band dangling from around her neck.
Her legs felt strong again, calves flexing as she ran across the grass, soft under her shoes. When had that stopped feeling impossible? When had breathing stopped hurting? And why wasn’t she hungry, or tired, or anything at all but, rather, content, happy, even, with a subconscious sense that things were alright?
Before she could catch hold of it, a swarm of kids came charging toward her from the sidelines—sidelines, that’s what they were. Because she was standing, feet firm, in the middle of a soccer field, and these were her players, their little cleats thumping across the pitch.
Melissa had expected confusion, but instead she was struck by a strange surge of familiarity, as if this had always been her Saturday morning, and let herself fall into the scene without thinking. She didn’t once stop to ask what the fuck she was doing here, on what must have been an early spring day, in a life that felt both so distant and still distinctly like her own.
Whatever this was, it was better than where she’d come from. Who was she to question it? Gift horses, and whatnot!
A soccer ball careened past her, and snapped her out of her doubts for good. With 22 children chasing after it, some stumbling over their own feet to get to it first, and Melissa being the only adult on the pitch, she figured she was the one keeping order out here.
How had that happened? Who had put her in charge?
“Hey!” she called, cupping her hands around her mouth. “Hey, what do we say about bunching up?”
The whistle bounced against her sternum as she jogged after the group—her team—the laughter of the four and five-year-olds intensifying. The cluster of kids tripped over each other, nobody remembering their positions as she approached. One of them (little Jamie, Melissa somehow knew) sat down in the middle of the field and pulled at the velcro on his shoes, already distracted from the game. Not exactly professional game play, but Melissa let it go with a grin.
This wasn’t the World Cup, this was...What? Saturday morning, her brain supplied, on a patch of community field in Wiskayok, ringed with parents in folding chairs. Because she was…She was coaching?
“Spread out!” she instructed, frowning again at how natural it felt coming from her mouth.
And then, as if this wasn’t already the strangest of days, which had to count for something, given the events of the past months (surviving a plane crash, and all that), Melissa’s eyes landed on him. Much like every other realization, the knowledge that this boy, sprinting ahead of the team, was her son hit her so naturally, as if she’d never known a life in which he wasn’t. Where the others stumbled, he was running as expertly as a five-year-old could. He wasn’t any taller than the others (if anything, he was smaller), but there was a drive in him, a talent to predict where the ball would roll that allowed him to get there before anyone else could think to.
Melissa’s heart did a strange little flip, a pride she’d never felt before washing over her.
“Good hustle!” she called, raising both thumbs in the air.
That was the deal, she supposed, for coaching him: She was Coach Mel here, not Mom, who brushed his hair before they left the house or cut his apple slices in the shape of stars because he liked them better that way.
He glanced back at her, grinning wide, and then was off again—darting between the others, tapping the ball forward. Defensive midfielder, because of course he was.
Melissa forced the feeling aside, blowing her whistle again when two kids collided and toppled over in a heap. She jogged forward, bent down to check scraped knees, tied a lace that had come undone, and helped the kids up again, encouraging them to keep on playing.
This was her job, and deep down she knew she was good at it.
Later, when the game was done, Melissa gathered the kids in a circle and crouched down to their level. “Okay, team,” she said, smiling at their dirt-streaked faces. “We played great today. What do we say at the end of every game?”
“Good game!” they chorused in unison.
“Exactly. We tell the other team Good game, no matter what. Sportsmanship. That’s rule number one.”
“Not the whistle, Coach?” one of the girls asked.
“That’s number two.” Melissa laughed. “Okay, bring it in.”
Tiny hands stacked one over the other, and as the circle formed, Melissa noticed her son’s hand resting on top. She placed hers over his, giving the smallest squeeze.
Whatever this life was that she’d woken up in, Melissa liked it.
Melissa adjusted the rearview mirror, catching sight of him in the backseat. His hair was plastered to his sweaty forehead, and he was kicking his legs against the seat, still somehow energized enough for it, even with his seatbelt tugging across his chest.
“You played really well today,” Melissa said as she turned the key in the ignition.
“I scored,” he reminded her instantly, a grin that missed one front tooth flashing in the reflection. The kicks stopped.
“You did.” She nodded, pulling onto the road. “But you know what’s even better? You passed! You set up three other kids to score. That’s called being a team player.”
He frowned. “But I like scoring.”
“Everybody does.” Melissa smiled at the windshield. “But making it happen for someone else? That’s special. That’s what a good soccer player does.”
He went quiet for a moment and fiddled with the strap of his seatbelt. “So I’m the best?”
“You’re not supposed to say that.” She laughed. “But I’m really proud of you, okay?” Melissa glanced in the mirror again, caught his grin, and couldn’t help smiling back. The set of his mouth and the squint in his eyes— There was so much of Shauna in that look, plain as day. Melissa didn’t stop to think about how or why any of that was possible at all.
When the car pulled into the driveway and gravel crunching under the tires signaled that they’d made it home, she shut off the engine, walking around to his side to unbuckle him. As soon as the latch clicked, his arms lifted.
“Fly me, Mom!” her son demanded with an impatient wiggle.
Feigning exasperation, Melissa shook her head. Even this routine, personal as it should be, came to her mind naturally, knowing she’d been doing this since long before he could walk.
She bent down and slipped under his arms to lift him out of his seat. Her son stretched his hands out wide, mimicking the wings of a plane. “Flyingggg!” he shouted, laughing as Melissa spun him around, all the way up to the front door, where she set him down and he stumbled on landing, but straightened quickly, puffing his chest out.
“Perfect landing,” Melissa said as she unlocked the door for them.
“Again!”
“Inside first,” she told him, ruffling his hair. “You need water.”
He pouted but actually obeyed and darted ahead of her.
Okay, he didn’t get that from me, Melissa noted as she took off her shoes. By then, the boy was halfway down the hallway, zigzagging from wall to wall. She heard him skid, his socks squeaking against the polished wood, palms thumping to hold himself upright.
“We’re inside. Again!” he shouted, popping his head around the corner, hair sticking up every which way. “Mom, again, again, again!”
Melissa groaned, more for show, and left the duffel of cones and balls by the door. “You’re relentless, you know that?”
And that, she thought, he might’ve gotten from her.
“You said two flights a day!”
“I said maybe two flights a day. Weather conditions vary.”
He stomped his socked foot. “The sky is clear!”
Melissa laughed and tossed her keys into the little ceramic dish by the door—one of Shauna’s thrift-store finds, painted with tiny daisies around the rim. “You’re lucky I’m still strong,” she said, flexing her arms dramatically for good measure.
As her son smiled up at her, his eyes scrunched in a way that looked so much like Shauna, it took the wind out of her sails for half a second. Then he was tugging at her sleeve, urging her to move faster, and she had no choice but to follow.
“Alright, alright,” Melissa said, scooping him up again. “Hold on tight, we’ve hit some turbulence!”
“Mayday!” The boy shrieked as she staggered through the hallway toward the living room, deliberately stumbling from side to side with her son hoisted over her shoulder. They entered with Melissa dangling him by the legs, his arms outstretched, reaching for the couch.
“This is your captain speaking,” she said. “We appear to be going down.”
He yelped again, wriggling in her grip as they stumbled into the room.
“This doesn’t look good, folks,” Melissa announced in her best pilot voice. “We’re going down. We’re—ahhhh!”
She bent forward and let him crash gently into the lap that awaited him on the sofa: Shauna looked up from the book in her hands just in time to catch the impact of their son barreling into her. He squealed with delight, wrapping his arms around her neck as Melissa straightened up to catch her breath, smiling at the sight.
“Boom, direct hit!” she panted.
Shauna’s book slid closed, forgotten, as their son climbed over her legs and buried his face against her shoulder, where he dissolved into giggles. Shauna let out an oof, but she was laughing too, shaking her head at Melissa.
“Flight successfully completed.” She straightened, stretching her arms overhead.
Meanwhile, their son squirmed higher, trying to drape himself completely across Shauna. “Plane crash!”
“Oh, is that what that was?” she asked, oddly…fond as she smoothed his hair back.
“Mhmm,” he nodded seriously. “But I survived.”
“Good,” Shauna hummed and pressed her lips to his temple. “I’d be very sad if you didn’t.”
Melissa sank into the arm of the couch beside them. “That was some rough flying,” she said, and leaned over to kiss Shauna hello, just because she could.
Just because she could!
“Ew!” Their son instantly pulled back to cover his eyes with his hands. “Mom!” he shouted, backing away into Shauna’s front.
“Be careful with your Mama,”
Melissa knew that, with all of his energy, he could get carried away from time to time, and forget that he needed to be extra careful these days. Shauna gave her a look, always insistent that she was doing perfectly fine, and Melissa, without thinking, rested her palm across her wife’s stomach. There it was, the swell under her palm, no longer small enough to be hidden away under one of her old college hoodies. Now, it was stretching the fabric out, a bump begging to be seen.
Sobering up from his burst of energy, their son blinked at it. His voice, when he spoke, was solemn, whispering, “That’s the baby...”
“Yes,” Shauna said gently, a hand still pressed to his flushed cheek. “That’s right.”
He hesitated, lower lip caught between his teeth. “Can I touch?”
Her expression softened. “Of course,” she nodded, shifting to make room.
He crept closer and pressed his palm against her belly too, below Melissa’s. “Hi, baby,” he whispered, eyes wide with wonder.
“Gentle hands,” she reminded him as she pushed up from the couch.
Over her shoulder, Shauna caught her eyes, rolling hers affectionately at the constant reminders.
Granted, she hadn’t been quite as protective over the first time pregnancy, which was unusual, all things considered. Then, she hadn’t known all that was still to come: She hadn’t known of scraped knees and sickness and, god, the first time their boy nearly hit his head on the windowsill because he toppled over. She hadn’t—and that was the actual point—known a love like this existed until the moment she’d held him for the first time. This time around, Melissa had come prepared and was now, much to Shauna’s dismay, a little too protective of her and their unborn child.
Melissa wandered into the kitchen, unzipping her jacket as she went. She pulled two water glasses down from the cupboard, filled one, and leaned against the counter, listening to the conversation happening back in the living room.
“What did you learn today?” Shauna was asking.
“That I’m a defensive midfielder!”
“And what does that mean?”
“It means I’m the best!” he answered instantly.
Melissa nearly choked on her water. “For the record, I didn’t tell him that!” she called over.
“And I’m gonna score every game!”
“That’s ambitious,” Shauna said. “But if anyone could do it…” Her fingers tapped lightly against their son’s back. “And did you listen to Coach Mel?”
There was a pause, then a sheepish, “Sometimes.”
Melissa smiled into her glass.
It was absurd how normal it all felt. Absurd, because somewhere in her mind she knew it couldn’t be real, a thought which dissolved as quickly as it came as her son laughed again.
She carried a bowl of cut fruit, which Shauna must’ve prepared before their arrival, and more water back into the living room and set it on the coffee table. Their son had sprawled himself across Shauna’s lap, head pillowed on her stomach, his hand still pressed carefully against her belly. Shauna looked at ease like that, stroking her thumb along his knuckles.
“Only sometimes?” Melissa teased, handing her the glass.
He wrinkled his nose. “She blows the whistle too much.”
Shauna grinned and took a sip before passing the glass back. “Well, you’ve got to listen to your coach, she knows what she’s doing.” She turned her gaze to Melissa. “And how was coaching?”
“Chaotic,” Melissa said, settling beside them. “You should’ve seen it. Half of the kids ran the wrong way, one sat down in the middle of the field to undo his shoes, and our son thinks he’s ready for the World Cup.”
“I am!” his protest came muffled against Shauna’s sweater.
Melissa nudged his foot with her toe. “Maybe next week.”
“He looks tired,” Shauna commented.
“M’not tired,” he mumbled, making both women smile.
“You were running circles around everyone,” Melissa said as she picked an apple slice from the bowl. “You’ll crash tonight.”
“No, I won’t.”
Shauna pressed her lips to the crown of his head, hiding her amusement in his hair. “We’ll see about that.”
After looking thoughtful for a moment, he asked, “Will the baby play soccer too?”
“Maybe.” Shauna’s laugh was so unlike anything Melissa had ever heard from her, so unlike the mocking scoffs or occasional sneers. “But only if they want to.”
“Mommy can coach them too!” he added decisively.
Melissa chuckled. “One team at a time, buddy.”
That only made him more animated. He wiggled off Shauna’s lap and stood in front of them, his arms flung wide as he launched into a very impassioned retelling of the goal he’d scored that morning. He reenacted every step: the run, the kick, the triumphant finish.
Under his feet, the sun stretched across the rug, lighting up the scuffed floorboards and the framed snapshots along the wall behind the couch: From summer trips to birthdays long past. At the center, dead middle of the wall, was Shauna’s Brown degree, matted and framed, their pride piece, surrounded by his crayon drawings secured with crooked tape. Melissa’s own medals and trophies lived in a box in the closet She’d never thought to display them. More than once, Shauna had suggested new shelves, insisting they belonged up too, which, of course, given the circumstances, was deemed a herculean task for a pregnant woman by Melissa.
“Eat up,” she said when he finally finished his story, gesturing toward the bowl. “We still have plans, remember?”
Predictably, that got his attention as he sat up straighter. “Plans!”
Shauna arched an eyebrow and scooped her book off the couch cushion where it had been abandoned. “Plans...?”
Melissa bit her lip, fighting a grin. “Super secret plans,” she clarified in a stage whisper.
“Ohhh.” Shauna nodded. “Are these the same super secret plans I’ve been banned from the garage over?”
“No comment.”
Their boy giggled, bouncing on his toes. “It’s a surprise, Mama! You can’t peek. Not even a tiny peek!” He drained the last of his water with an audible gulp and set the glass down carefully. “So, not allowed in the garage!”
“Fine, fine.” She sighed with faux defeat. “I’ll keep my distance.”
“M’kay!”
Just like that, their son was up on his feet again to trot across the room. He scooped up his hat from the coffee table and jammed it on backward with the brim askew, and–
And he wore a Hat! Just like Melissa, albeit still a bit too big for his head, so it was shadowing his eyes. Still, as he looked up at her from under it—head tilted, smirk lopsided—it was like seeing a smaller version of herself.
“Come on, Mommy!” he shouted from the door. “Hurry!”
Melissa laughed. Out of all things, he inherited her hat and her patience.
“I guess that’s my cue!”
“Don’t keep the captain waiting,” Shauna smiled softly, and Melissa leaned in for another kiss, because apparently, that was something she was allowed to do here.
In this life.
Cool.
She lingered a little longer than necessary, just for good measure, before pushing herself up and jogging after him.
Their garage, as she entered it and flicked on the light switch, was still a mess from the last time they’d come here. The single bulb overhead buzzed to life, spilling pale yellow over the room and revealing the disarray: Wooden boards and sawdust covered most of the floor, and a clutter of brushes stood in a cup that had definitely once held yogurt.
The paint cans still sat to the left, untouched, a pile of potential colors they had yet to choose.
Her son had insisted on getting multiple colors when they couldn’t settle on one at the hardware store. 2 hours they’d paced the place after a practice, trying—and, evidently, failing—to pick one out. So, in the end, they’d left with four paint cans, a whole lot of wood, and one shared mission, which stood at the center of their garage: the crib.
“Look, Mommy!” Her son called. “It’s almost done!”
Melissa followed, smiling as she crouched beside him. “Almost. We’ve come a long way, huh, buddy?”
He nodded furiously. “When the baby comes, they’ll have their own bed. A real bed! Not just…not just a basket.”
“Definitely not just a basket,” she chuckled.
He ran his hand along the rail, careful with the wood.
Melissa watched him, a little ache building in her ribs because how could it not?
She remembered December of the last year, when he was told he would soon be an older brother—his wishlist scrawled in oversized letters his grandma had helped him with, asking Santa for “a hammer” and “some extra wood, please.”
She’d barely managed to scribble it out before Shauna found it and figured out what they’d been planning behind her back.
“You’ve been working so hard on this,” she said. “I think your sibling is gonna be pretty impressed.”
He beamed up at her. “You think so, Mommy?”
“I know so.”
Pride lit his face, and he reached for one of the brushes resting on a paint can. “Can we paint today?”
“Patience, mister,” Melissa said, catching his wrist before he could dunk it into the nearest tin. “We’ll paint together. I don’t think Mama would be too happy if you ran back into the house covered in stripes.”
He, with his hands free, circled the crib again to inspect it from every angle, and Melissa stood as she watched him.
The crib was…solid.
It wasn’t finished yet, and definitely far from perfect—some lines were most definitely crooked, and a corner stubbornly refused to fit flush—but it was theirs.
His, especially.
They’d sanded each piece together, and he’d held the screws in his tiny palm, passing them one by one as Melissa fit the drill into place.
She took a deep breath, her eyes stinging unexpectedly. Before her son could notice, Melissa quickly blinked back the tears and said, “Hey, why don’t you go grab the little step stool? We’ll start with a practice coat.”
He gasped, sprinting toward the shelves. “Yes!”
The stool scraped noisily across the concrete as he dragged it over, nearly tripping over one leg in the process. Melissa had to steady him with a hand on his shoulder and passed him the smallest brush she could find. Side by side, they knelt by the crib, dipping the tips of the bristles into the paint.
“Not too much,” she coached helpfully.
“I know, Mom!”
As he dabbed it against the wood, his tongue began poking from the corner of his mouth in concentration, and the hat he’d refused to take off was slipping over one eye. The first streak was bound to come out lopsided, excessive paint dripping at the edge, but he grinned at it proudly all the same.
“There,” he said. “The baby will love it!”
“Yeah.” Melissa rested her chin on the top of his head. “They’re gonna love it.”
For a while, two of them worked side by side in the garage, laughing each time one of them messed up a brushstroke or ended up with paint smeared across their cheeks—a rather frequent occurrence, given she was painting with a five-year-old.
Not for the first time, Melissa found herself thinking that maybe this was it: Her whole world, right here.
Melissa should’ve seen this coming. Painting with a five-year-old. What had she been thinking?
Yeah, it had started out well enough, with him painting little strokes on the crib rail while Melissa crouched beside him, reminding him “not to apply too much paint” and “just a little, buddy.” But then, five minutes later, his brush had slipped for the first time.
Then his whole hand.
Then came the streak across his cheek where he’d tried to scratch his nose with paint on his fingers.
By the ten-minute mark, Melissa wasn’t sure if they were painting the crib or her son.
Now he stood before her like a walking art project, with paint smeared across his arms, patches blotting his shirt, and smudges tangled in the roots of his hair.
Trying her best not to laugh, Melissa pressed her lips together and pointed the tip of her brush at him. “You,” she said. “are trouble.”
“You can’t tell Mama!”
“Oh, I’m definitely telling Mama.”
“Nooo!” He squealed, ducking under her arm and scampering toward the door.
Melissa caught him easily, looping an arm around his middle and hauling him up. “Not so fast, Picasso.” She hoisted him against her hip. “We’ve got to sneak you past her first. Come on.”
He threw his head back, laughing so hard his hat—her hat, probably—slipped sideways and tumbled to the floor without either of them noticing.
“Don’t look!” Melissa shouted down the hall, shouldering open the door. “Don’t look, Shauna, whatever you do!”
“That bad?”
“Worse,” she muttered, clutching him tighter as he wiggled in her arms.
“No peeking, Mommy!”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Shauna was audibly laughing, where she was still perched up on the couch in the living room.
Somehow (though the precise details of the how were beyond her), Melissa managed to hustle him into the bathroom and nudged the door closed with her foot unseen. In there, she set him down, started the tub, and then promptly scooped him back up to drop him into the water—clothes and all.
They were already ruined anyway, streaked and stained, she figured they could use a quick rinse. And, besides, he himself didn’t seem all too bothered by it, sending a wave that splashed over her jeans as he slapped his hands down on the surface, practically howling with laughter. Judging by the looks of it, that boy was having the time of his life.
“Oh, this is a disaster!” Groaning, Melissa backed up and turned to grab towels from the cabinet, muttering about the laundry (because, yeah, she’d have to do that, wouldn’t she?) when she heard the telltale squeak of porcelain.
“Don’t even think about it—”
Too late.
When she spun around, her son was halfway out, one leg dangling over the side of the tub. “I’m escaping!”
“Hey!” Melissa lunged, caught him by the waistband of his drenched jeans, and hauled the boy back into the tub playfully. “Not on my watch, pal.”
Again, her son erupted into giggles, water sloshing everywhere. Melissa tried her best to look stern, but it seemed sterness wasn’t her strong suit as a mother, because she couldn’t hide her own grin either.
Once the worst of the mess was wrangled, Melissa sat on the closed toilet lid, jeans soaked to the knees, watching him bob up through the bubbles with a crown of foam on his head.
“All decent in there?” Shauna’s voice came from behind the door.
“Barely,” Melissa said, flicking a stray bubble off her arm. She checked quickly for stray streaks of paint on their son’s face. “You’re not supposed to look yet.”
The door opened, revealing Shauna, who was leaning against its frame with a hand on the curve of her stomach. “I think I can risk it.”
“Mama! Look!” Their son interrupted. He had surfaced again, flinging more bubbles in every direction.
Shauna laughed and crouched down beside the tub. “You’re a mess.”
“No, I’m clean now!”
Before Melissa could add another remark, she bent at the waist with a huff of effort, reaching for the robe Melissa had slung over the towel rack. “Alright, mister, then let’s get you dry!” she said.
“I can-”
“I’ve got it,” Shauna cut her off, speaking so firmly that Melissa knew better than to argue with her.
Her son wriggled toward her, his arms barely poking out of the sleeves as he snuggled into the robe she wrapped around him. Shauna drew the hood up over his damp hair and tugged the strings snug around his cheeks, so only his nose peeked out.
Melissa had to bite back her smile as she leaned against the counter. There was something about watching them together, mother and son, that never failed to knock the wind out of her.
Then again, when had she ever known this?
Melissa decided not to think about that.
Instead, as he flopped into Shauna’s lap, she tried again. “Let me dry his hair at least-”
Shauna shot her a look. “Melissa,” she said. “Sit.”
Melissa snapped her jaw shut and sank back onto the toilet obediently. “Bossy.”
“I’m pregnant,” she corrected, working the towel through damp curls in circular motions. “Not incapable.”
Underneath the towel, the boy was shrieking. “Mama, you’re making me dizzy!”
Melissa, covering her mouth to cover up her laugh, could barely remember when she’d last felt this full. Of noise, of life, of tiny, beautifully ordinary battles.
“There,” Shauna finally declared and pushed the hood back to ruffle his curls; darker than Melissa’s, much lighter than her own.
He sat up straighter, his expression growing uncharacteristically solemn all of a sudden. “Can I watch TV?”
“What’s the rule?”
“Only until dinner,” he recited dutifully.
“Good.” Shauna pressed a kiss to his temple. “Go on, pick something we can all stand.”
He wriggled out of her hold and scampered out the door with robe tails flapping behind him.
Melissa watched him go, then turned back to Shauna and...caught her staring.
Shauna’s eyes were fixed on her shirt and, as she followed her gaze, she quickly figured out why: Dark patches had spread across the cotton, damp where her son’s wet clothes had clung against her, not to mention the wet streak in her hair that dripped down her collarbone.
“Okay. Yeah. I look like I fell in the tub, too.”
Shauna shifted her weight, braced on the counter for balance. “You should shower.”
Dinner first! He’s gonna be starving.”
“I said,” she said, standing on her own. “You should shower.”
Melissa opened her mouth to argue, then shut it promptly as Shauna moved to follow her son.
Oh well, she thought, some things never changed, no matter the life.
Melissa emerged from the bathroom with her hair damp from the shower, its ends leaving dark spots on the worn fabric of her old high school varsity hoodie, proof that she hadn’t bothered with the blow dryer. She rubbed at one particularly stubborn stain with her sleeve, knowing it would dry before long as she padded barefoot down the hall, lured in by the murmur of their television.
Looney Tunes played at full volume, the coyote had once again outwitted himself with a rocket on their TV screen, and her son sat on the rug in front of it, the comically oversized robe tied around his waist. In passing, Melissa bent down and ruffled his hair until he swatted her hand away. “Hey! You’re messing it up!”
Shaking her head fondly, she ventured on toward the kitchen, drawn in by the sound of a knife meeting a cutting board. Shauna stood at the counter, slicing zucchini into neat half-moon shapes. From the doorway, Melissa took her sweet time watching her wife—her fucking wife! Melissa had a wife!—handling the knife with such care.
It wasn’t the treatment she felt she was used to, but, oh well, who was Melissa to complain about that?
Finally, she crossed the room and wrapped her arms around Shauna from behind. “Boo,” Melissa murmured.
Shauna startled, accidentally cutting a piece too thin, and that was new, too, wasn’t it? Shauna, not having those constant walls up around her?
“Don’t,” she chuckled.
Melissa grinned and held onto Shauna’s hips so she couldn’t wriggle away. “Mmm. You smell good.” She nuzzled her nose into the warm curve of her neck, inhaling. Shauna tried to keep her knife steady as her shoulders relaxed into the embrace with a soft sigh.
“You know,” Melissa said, and peered over her shoulder at the cutting board. “I could’ve done this.”
“You were showering.”
“I could’ve showered faster,” she squeezed her from behind, letting her cheek brush against the curve of Shauna’s jaw as she trailed her thumb over the bump. “I don’t want you overdoing it.”
Shauna paused, blade hovering over the board. For a moment, Melissa worried she’d pushed too far, but then she set the knife aside. “I’m capable of chopping vegetables.”
“I don’t doubt it for a second.”
“Good.” Shauna reached for the knife again. “But you still don’t get to hover.”
“Fine.” Melissa chuckled and pressed a kiss to her shoulder. She kept clinging, though, holding Shauna while she chopped the vegetables, breathing her in, feeling both the firm line of her spine and the soft give of her belly.
Another kiss, pressed to the fine hairs at the base of her neck, and Shauna went still, her knife paused mid-air. A barely audible sigh escaped her, but Melissa recognized it.
“Mel…”
She grinned against Shauna’s neck, grazing the spot below her ear. “What?”
“You know your timing is terrible.”
Melissa risked a glance toward the living room. Their son was still glued to the cartoon playing, laughing along with the characters on screen, and, as she watched him, her hand trailed along Shauna’s side until she set the knife down. “Melissa.”
With a long sighed dramatically, she pulled back to rest her chin on Shauna’s shoulder. “Later?”
Shauna shook her head, but Melissa caught the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. “Later,” she agreed.
One more time, Melissa gave Shauna’s middle a squeeze, basking in that wonderful scent. Her real scent, warm and clean and untouched by dirt and blood and all that other wilderness odor that came from wearing unwashed clothes over and over, from sleeping in animal furs under the open sky.
It took all of her willpower to let go.
When the three of them sat down at the table and Shauna set the bowl of spaghetti down at the center of the table, the smell of the sauce had spread through every corner of their house. While their son bounced impatiently in his chair, Melissa poured water into their glasses.
“Careful,” she warned, sliding his cup out of reach until the plates were filled. “It’s hot.”
“Mama, I’m starving!” He groaned.
“You just had two handfuls of carrot sticks while we cooked,” Melissa chuckled. “But you did have quite the day, huh, buddy?”
Shauna hid a smile behind her palm as she twirled a forkful of pasta onto his plate that he immediately dug into.
“Look!” he called and held up his fork, a wobbling pile of spaghetti clinging on for dear life.
Melissa grinned. “That’s at least half the pot right there.”
Half of it slipped free when he attempted to shove the whole tangle into his mouth at once, sauce splattering all over his chin. “Charming,” Shauna muttered beside him, though a smile threatened to break through as she cut into her own portion.
Melissa smirked at her from across the table. “You know he gets that from you.”
“You know, Melissa, I somehow highly doubt that.”
Their son chose that exact moment to grin at them, his cheeks puffed with another bite, pasta hanging out both sides of his mouth like a walrus.
“Shauna, look!” Melissa gasped. He’s got tusks!”
Shauna gave them both the same unimpressed stare. “Very dignified,” she said, reaching over with the napkin. “You’re supposed to eat it, not wear it.”
“But Mama laughed!” he pointed out triumphantly as Shauna wiped off the worst of the sauce from his face. Melissa winked at him when the paper towel came away from his face, revealing that, by then, their son had started balancing a single strand of spaghetti across his upper lip like a mustache. He wiggled his eyebrows, sending both his mothers into giggles this time.
Later, when the plates were cleared, and their son sat back with his robe in disarray, Shauna was blotting his cheeks with a damp cloth, a napkin not enough to get the stains from his cheeks.
“Hold still!” she laughed, his face held in her gentle grip.
“I am still!” he insisted, although they could both see he was making constant attempts to wriggle away.
“Sure you are,” Shauna murmured, swiping another streak before he could dart off. After that bit was done, she stood to clear the plates, yet as Shauna bent toward the dishwasher, Melissa stepped in and wrapped her fingers around Shauna’s arm.
Shauna hadn’t let her help all day and, to an extent, Melissa understood: Her wife was capable—more than anyone she had ever met—and resilient, and if anyone would manage this just fine, it would certainly be Shauna. However, out of all things she hadn’t been allowed to help with, she wanted this one thing to be hers to take care of.
Shauna looked ready to argue, and Melissa braced herself for it, but before the words could come, the sound of little feet pounding across the floor cut her off, and their son came barreling back in with a book hugged to his chest. “Mommy, story time!” he blurted, out of breath. “You gotta come now.”
“Go on,” Melissa nodded her head toward the stairs. “Time for bedtime stories.”
Even as Shauna sighed, Melissa could see the fondness soften every line of her face when she let him tug her toward the staircase, knowing his bedtime stories were hers to take care of. As she turned back to the sink, stacking plates, she could still hear them upstairs—the rustle of drawers opening, his voice declaring he could definitely pick his pajamas by himself.
Melissa washed dishes to the sound of stray words and bedtime negotiations.
Only when the last pot had been rinsed off and dried did she turn off the kitchen light and head up the stairs herself, her steps slowing briefly as she passed the gallery wall in the hallway. There, their whole life was framed, from their son on his first day of kindergarten, backpack almost as big as him, over a newborn shot, to what was undoubtedly their wedding photo—Shauna in white, Melissa in her suit, both of them laughing at something out of frame that Melissa’s memory didn’t extend to.
She lingered and let herself look, forcing her mind to take it all in, to never forget, before continuing upstairs.
The glow of a nightlight spilled out of his room, and, peeking inside through the gap they’d left, she saw Shauna on the edge of their son’s bed, turning the pages of a book in her lap.
“…and so Frog told Toad,” she read, imitating the different characters for him, fighting sleep with his hands fisted in the blanket up to his chin. “‘Tomorrow, we will climb the mountain. We will do it together.’” Shauna turned another page. “‘But first,’ Frog said, ‘we must stop and eat all the cookies in the land. Every single one. Even the ones Mommy hid on the top shelf.’”
“Mama,” he frowned. “That’s not what it says.”
“Are you sure?”
He shook his head against her side, his lashes drooping again. “No…that’s… not right. You’re s’posed to read it proper…”
“Proper, huh?” Shauna smoothed a hand through his hair, smiling. “You’re supposed to be sleeping, mister.”
“I am,” he yawned.
“Mmhm.” She pressed a kiss to his temple. “Looks like it.”
From the doorway, Melissa pressed her knuckles against her lips, attempting to muffle her laughter to no avail: As soon as he heard, his eyes blinked wide open again and found her, the yawn vanishing. “Mommy!” he exclaimed.
“Hey,” She crossed the room and lowered herself to her knees beside his bed. He tipped his head on the pillow, and Melissa reached out, caressing the side of his cheek with her knuckles. The same gesture she’d used when he was tiny, when his whole head had fit in the palm of her hand. Even years later, the touch worked like a charm: his body went loose, and a final sleepy smile appeared on his face.
“Good night, Mama,” he murmured toward Shauna, then turned his cheek to press it into Melissa’s palm. “Good night, Mommy.”
For one last time, Melissa smoothed her hand down over his hair. She relished in his trust, his comfort, knowing all these evenings would slip right through her fingers, that he wouldn’t need this, his parents’ comfort, in just a handful of years, and that, by then, she would yearn for one more of those nights.
“Good night,” she whispered to him.
Shauna kissed the top of his head, murmuring the same words, and within minutes, his breathing evened out as his tiny hands uncurled from the sheets.
Shauna eased herself upright first, trying not to make a sound, but her bump made the movement clumsy, and she had to shift her weight around before she stood, at last, and slid out of the bed. Melissa flicked off the lamp, leaving only the faint glow of the nightlight in the corner, and they both stepped into the hall and pulled the door shut behind them.
One last peek of their son, she got from where she stood, wrapped up in his cocoon of rockets and stars of the print on his blankets, then Shauna closed it all the way.