“Get it later. Just pull into the garage.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
Holden’s hand finds mine, and he tugs me in for a quick kiss. I grin up at him, brush my lips against his, then rush out to the car.
Thankfully, though the other two doors hide a sports car and a sedan, there’s space in the three-car garage for my SUV. Holden stands in the doorway to the house, Ashton leaning against his legs, when I shut off the engine, and I gaze through the windshield at the pair. Something tightens in my chest, something telling me this is right. It’s huge, it’s something new, but it’s somethingright.
After sending a quick ‘Made it safely!’ text to my family and friends, I slide out of the car and closes the door. Holden smiles softly as I approach; his arms loop around my shoulders, and I lace my fingers together behind his back. He doesn’t kiss me like I expect. Instead, he only rests his forehead against mine. A lock of his hair brushes against my temple, but I’m distracted by the gleam in Holden’s eyes. The serious expression on his face. His lips part, form words:
“Welcome home, Dealla.”
A New Chapter
LivingwithHoldenisn’tas easy as the two weeks over the holidays had been. The mini-vacations I took could never have prepared me for the reality of cohabitation. Since I was eighteen, I’ve lived alone. Never have I had a roommate. But now, I live with someone else, and I must learn to do so properly. It helps that my ‘roommate’ happens to be my boyfriend. Otherwise, I think, it would be more difficult.
By the end of the first week, however, I am near my breaking point. The change in scenery, the unfamiliarity of the house, the disruption of routine… It all serves to be too much for Ashton. I find myself continually struggling to quell tantrums—trying and failing more often than not. He refuses naps until he falls asleep on the floor, refuses to sleep at night unless I stay by his bedside until his body goes lax, refuses to play for more than ten minutes before getting angry. I repeatedly remind myself that while this is new for the both of us, Ashton has far less experience with change.
I may have been his constant for so long, but even I can’t take away the newness.
The worst part, though not wholly unexpected, is that everything has remained firmly full-weight on my shoulders. When he was home, Holden tried to distract Ashton when the squalling starts, but he has done little else in the way of correcting. Discipline is my responsibility, much like it always has been, but this is different. Itfeelsdifferent, anyway.
I don’t say anything to Holden about my frustrations. It would do nothing good, and guilting him over something he can’t change is the last thing I want to do. The man has enough on his plate with writing music and helping Eddie run his nightclub, plus keeping up a social media presence. I almost wish for the days where musicians didn’t need to be online so much just to keep their fans.
Turning my head, I gaze at the empty side of the bed. Holden is still at The Underworld, probably behind the bar as he is regularly. For a country music star, he has a deep love for Eddie’s club and the pulsing beats that pound through the speakers. I haven’t spent very much time at The Underworld—Holden had taken me once when I visited during the summer, but our time there had been cut short by the approach of a group of fans. But I’d learned that night that he enjoys playing the role of bartender whenever he can get away with it.
I wake to the subtle shift of the comforter, and a warm body presses in against my back. Holden smells of liquor, but beneath the whiskey is the scent I’ve come to associate with him. The scent I’ve grown to love. After a slow blink, I reach out and tap my phone. The screen lights up, the white2:59blinding in the dark. Warmth burns in my eyes, but I blink it away and bite down on my lower lip. Holden’s hand splays across my belly, fingers sliding across the soft cotton-blend of my shirt to tuck between my side and the mattress.
“Sorry for waking you up,” he whispers, and his lips press to the back of my head. “And sorry for being out so late.”
“It’s fine,” I whisper back.
Holden’s response is nothing more than a questioning “Okay?”, but he doesn’t press. In fact, all he does is scoot closer, hold me tighter, and let out a deep exhale. His soft snores fill the quiet of the room only a moment later, and I roll my eyes at how quickly he’s fallen asleep. Tugging the blankets higher, I close my eyes and listen to the steady breaths coming from behind me.
It doesn’t help me sleep, but it helps me remember I’m not as alone as I may feel.
Thankfully, Cheryl knows someone who knows someone who knows someone who works at a childcare center in need of another staff member. So within the next two weeks, I have an application submitted and an interview scheduled. As much as I hate the idea of being away from Ashton, I know I can’t spend all my time staying at home anymore. Not like when I lived in Austin and had to keep my schedule open in case Katie decided to take a break from being a mother. Now… Now I need a job. It wouldn’t be fair to expect Holden to support us financially.
On the morning of the interview, I manage to get Ashton ready for the day, loaded into the car, and dropped off at Phil and Samantha’s house without any issues. I have plenty of time, but I hurry anyway. The interview is important, and despite my reservations about leaving Ashton with people he doesn’t know—who I myself hardly know—I do exactly that.
The building I park in front of is squat and long, the walk lined with brightly colored flowers, and stickers of smiling suns and cartoon animals decorate the large windows. The parking spots are delineated by children’s handprints, neon colors splashed on the dark asphalt. An enormous mural of safari animals and dancing children stretches across the front of the building to break up the drab monotony of the gray brick.
All in all, it makes for a cheerful welcome to Tiny Tots Nursery.
I sigh, slide out of the car, and lock the doors behind me. Humid air envelops me immediately, and I blow out a breath and tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. Following the pebbled sidewalk brings me to a front door, where a half-circle sun beams down from above the frame. I thumb the button nestled in the brick. A static-filled sound, then a cheerful voice comes through the speaker, asking who I am and my purpose for the visit.
“Dealla Higgins, I have an interview with Tara,” I announce shakily, and the door unlocks a moment later with a muffledthunk.
“Welcome to Tiny Tots!” a woman greets from behind a tall desk; a wide smile splits her pixie-like face. “If you’ll just have a seat, she’ll be right out. Would you like anything to drink while you wait?”
At my polite decline, the woman turns and disappears down a short hallway. I move to sit on the bench against the wall. My knee bounces as I stare around the lobby. Finger-paintings are tacked to the walls, covering every available inch, and hanging from the ceiling is a banner decorated with photographs of what I assume is the staff.At least they look friendly, I muse even as my stomach churns.
I haven’t been to a job interview since I was sixteen. I worked at the fast food joint until I was nineteen before switching to a plant nursery, which only happened because a friend recommended me for the position. After three years there came a short stint in a beer manufacturing plant, followed by being a receptionist at a car dealership. Then Katie got pregnant, Ashton was born, and I lost the job just shy of two years because of too many call-outs. Katie was struggling with postpartum depression and needed me. It was a no-brainer, the easiest choice of my life: I had to be there for my family.
Now I’m on the cusp of getting my first job since Ashton was three months old, and I only hope I have the charm required to nail the interview. The skills needed. That particular doubt is laughable, I have to admit. I may not think I’m exactly what Ashton needs, but I’ve certainly kept him alive thus far. That has to matter, even a little bit.
Thankfully, the receptionist returns only a moment later, calls my name, and I stand and follow her to a door that stands open. Behind a cluttered desk sits a woman with a lollipop stick jutting from between thin lips, and an army of pencils holds her ink-black hair in a mass on top of her head. She grins and stands, hand outstretched; I wipe my palm along my thigh, hoping the fabric of my slacks will wick away the clamminess of my hand. Introductions given, I sit in the empty chair across from Tara and force a smile.
Tara turns out to be straightforward. The little bit of small talk she allows in the beginning gives way to listing off the tasks and responsibilities. She accepts my explanation about the lack of employment easily enough, beams when I confirm I’m certified in CPR for adults and children and willing to do more training as needed. I answer every question asked of me, my confidence bolstering the longer I speak without being shown the door.
