She laughs, the sound soft and breathy, and then looks up at me through rain-spattered glasses. “Thanks, Declan. You’re a really great man. Amerie and the kids are lucky.”
She reaches out with her left hand, fingers gripping my forearm in a quick squeeze. The contact is quick and cushioned by the gratitude of her words, but it sets something off.
My whole body stiffens. I shift my arm away, tucking both hands into my pockets, and step back a pace.
“Right… well. Good night.”
I don’t wait for a reply. I circle round the back of the car, water splashing beneath my steps. By the time I slide behind the wheel, she’s still standing there on the curb, her silhouette blurred by the heavy downpour. It’s not until the headlights blink on that she finally seems to take the hint.
I’m pulling away as she reaches her front door. Her figure slips inside, swallowed by the darkness and whatever’s lurking behind it.
“It’s one Saturday, Declan. She’ll notice if you’re not there.”
“You sure about that?” I ask without looking up from my laptop. I’m sat in my home office, fingers flying over the keys. “Pretty sure all Widget’ll care about is the cake and bouncy castle.”
“You’ve missed dinner every night this week. Can’t you give us two hours?”
“It’s a five-year-old’s party, not the ruddy Olympics. I doubt anyone’s keeping attendance.”
Amerie folds her arms and shakes her head. She falls silent, but that’s all she needs to express her deep disappointment.
Truth be told, we’ve still been at each other’s throats lately. It’s back to New York bad habits. I throw myself into work, she disappears into her book deadline, and somehow we’re left out of sync with each other, forgetting how to communicate.
Chelsea’s made things easier on the home front, but maybe that’s part of the problem. Easier doesn’t always mean better.
I sigh, picturing Willow’s face if she looks around the party and I’m not there. If she’s waiting for me to show and then I never turn up.
“Alright,” I say, snapping the laptop shut. “I’ll come. But if I send a couple emails from my phone, we’re calling that a compromise.”
Amerie fights back a smile. “I suppose that’s better than nothing. I’ll get little man ready.”
“So Chelsea and Widget are already at the park?”
“They left half an hour ago,” she calls out from the hall. “Willow wanted to help with the cupcakes. Thankfully, the café took our order last minute. They picked them up on the way.”
“And whose birthday is it again?” I ask, following her into the hall. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and rake a hand through my hair. If I’m making a public appearance, I may as well look somewhat civilized.
“Willow’s classmate Arlo. He’s six today.”
“Six, is he? Practically a pensioner. He’ll have a chin hair and existential crisis by next Tuesday.”
Amerie smirks as she returns from upstairs with Emmett. I open my arms to take him and she hands him over. Our boy’s kitted out in soft jersey dungarees and the kind of bootie socks that make his feet look edible. I kiss the top of his curly head, then Amerie’s lips, a gesture I feel her linger in.
Even with our rows, even when she’s furious with me, there’s never been a second I’ve doubted how much I love this woman.She’s it for me, my partner in life and the mother of our children. Always has been and always will be.
We decide to walk rather than take the car. It’s a crisp spring afternoon, no rainclouds in sight, and it’d be daft to waste the weather.
A few minutes from the park, Amerie’s glucose monitor lets out a sharp beep. It’s synced to my phone too, in case of emergencies. I glance sideways at her, both brows raised.
“Amerie, love…” I say in warning, pushing the stroller forward.
She grimaces. “I’ll eat at the party! I promise. I’ve been doing better lately. You know I have. Especially since Chelsea’s been around. It’s freed up time. And guess what we got from the café?”
“This isn’t going to be about those damn bacon-wrapped scones again, is it? Bloody American nonsense.”
“No,” she laughs. “Sugar-free, diabetic-friendly cupcakes. We got four for today’s party. One for me and three for any other insulin-challenged guests.”
“Insulin-challenged? Christ, start a club. You can all compare monitors and grumble about icing.”
