My palms are sweating, my heart is hammering in my chest, and my stomach is in knots. There’s a nonzero chance I will throw up right here in the front seat of my car. The coffee I bought at my favorite café—the most incredible French vanillablend I get every morning—is sitting untouched in my cup holder.
I’m a wreck. I’m almost never a wreck, so I have no coping skills for this particular feeling.
Parking at the curb in front of the office, I turn off the car and lean my head back against the seat, closing my eyes and taking some deep breaths to try and calm my sparking nerves. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t work. The people who swear by yoga breathing are full of so much shit. All the yoga breathing in the world is not going to make me feel better right now.
Because in a few hours, I’m going to be someone’s guardian. There is going to be a seven-year-old girl looking to me to keep her happy, healthy, and safe.
Holy motherfucking shitballs.
Sitting in this car isn’t going to make anything better, so I open my eyes and steel myself to get moving. As I reach over to the passenger seat to grab everything I need, my eyes land on the note.
I have no idea when he wrote it, but I found it on my pillow when I went up to get ready for bed after he left last night.
Ems,
I’m so proud of you. It’s a remarkable thing you’re doing.
It’s okay to be nervous, but I know without a doubt that you are exactly who Maddy needs. She is so lucky to have you.
Call me if you need anything.
I had fun tonight.
Jeremy
I don’t know why I brought the note with me today instead of tucking it into the keepsake box with its twin, but I’m glad I did.
I run my hands over Jeremy’s words, reading them over and over again, each pass unknotting the anxiety in my stomach a little bit more. My mind flits back to last night, to how much he wanted to go shopping with me. How dedicated he was to setting up the room exactly the way I wanted it. How easily he talked me through my momentary freakout. How much fun it was to eat too much Chinese food and taste test different beers and laugh our asses off atThe Office.
How right it felt to sit on the couch with him and lean on his shoulder, to feel him rest his head on mine while our pinkies linked again and our legs pressed closely together. It definitely felt more than friendly, that’s for damn sure.
It’s crazy how much two weeks, two runs, a mid-storm rescue, a couple of handwritten notes, and my life-altering decision to apply to be a foster parent can change things.
My phone beeps, cutting off my thoughts of Jeremy, except not really, because when I reach for the phone, it’s his name on the screen.
Jeremy
Give ‘em hell today, Ems.
I chuckle at his choice of words, as if I’m going into battle and not meeting a child. Although, I kind of feel like I’m going into battle, so maybe he’s not that far off.
Me
It’s a seven-year-old girl, not a boxing match. I don’t think there’s anyone to give hell to.
Jeremy
I used to be an athlete. All I know are sports pep talks.
Interesting your mind went straight to boxing and not, like, football or something.
Or hockey?
Or that.
I don’t play football or hockey, but I do box.
Seriously?
