Page 87 of Fumbled Into Love

That way, they’ll remember her fondly.

Between Nyla and my mom, they work through every embarrassing story of my childhood. The time I accidentally peed my pants because Nyla scared me senseless. I was seven, and she jumped out of the closet wearing a clown mask.

My response was justified.

My mom shares about her life, which shocks me. She never spoke about herself with Savannah, but with Nathalie, my mom shares her decision to have children on her own. To use a sperm donor and start a family because after spending years focusing on her career as a surgeon, she felt she missed out on the other aspects life could offer.

“I never found someone I wanted to share a life and family with,” my mom admits quietly, “but I knew I wanted children, and now I have two I’m incredibly proud of.”

“That’s incredibly brave,” Nathalie says before turning to me, her gaze full of understanding. Nyla shows Nathalie pictures of her artwork and the interior design studio she runs in Texas. “IknewDeon didn’t decorate this place on his own. I love—” she stops mid-sentence, “love the artwork,” she continues shakily, “but there’s no way he chose it.”

My mind halts on the pause in her sentence.

What did she meanto say?

Was she going to say she lovedme?

“It’s my work,” Nyla says proudly, glancing around the room at her paintings hanging on my walls. It’s when I notice a box sitting on the coffee table.

‘“What’s that?” I ask, pointing to the box.

“Oh, it was on the porch. It has Nathalie’s name on it.”

“They’re here!” she yells, leaping from the table for the box. Nathalie does a small little pitter-patter with her feet in excitement and returns to the table. “Two-day shipping is thebest!”

“What is it?” Nyla asks, peering over me to get a look into the box.

Her excitement is so grand, her smile ginormous as she opens the box. I can only assume it’sLord of the Ringsrelated, but instead, she pulls out a tub and hands it to me. The tub is filled with random, colorful items, and I have no idea why I'm holding it.

Maybe there’s more, and she needs me to hold this while she unpacks the rest.

“It’s for you,” Nathalie says, and I move the box in my hand, trying to decipher what she bought me and why. Her voice lowers to something shy and uncertain. “They’re fidget toys,” she admits, “I didn’t know what kind you would like, but I thought they might help.”

Emotion clogs my throat.

I never knew she noticed my fidgeting. My fingers tremble as I open the tub, and my mom and Nyla are suspiciously quiet as I sort through the different fidget toys. Some pop or make clicking sounds. Others are squishy and have texture. There are dozens of options, and when I look at Nathalie, I know with certainty it will never be this way with anyone else.

Seen.Understood.Acknowledged.

“I-I can return them,” she says quietly, “I was reading about fidgeting and anxiety, and I noticed sometimes you need to keep your hands busy. I thought…I thought they might help.” Her discomfort is evident in the way she pushes her food around her plate, avoiding my gaze. “Maybe I overstepped.”

“No.” I finally find words. “This is…”

Well, those words are gone, but graciously, my mom says what I cannot.

“That’s incredibly thoughtful.” A tentative smile blooms on Nathalie’s face, and it strikes my chest, warming me from the inside out. “He’s always fidgeted. You can't imagine the number of pillows that have been lost because Deon picked at the threads.”

I’ve never understood why I fidget or need to do something with my hands, but it’s soothing. I’ve always used whatever is around me. Coffee creamers. Pillows. The stitching of my clothing.

Breaking ridiculous rule number two, I lean down and kiss Nathalie softly, hesitantly, pouring deep, unwavering affection into the woman who has treated me with more kindness and understanding than I ever thought I deserved.

Savannah’s love always left me questioning my worth. Was I doing enough? Did I say the wrong thing or ask the wrong question?

I have never questioned myself with Nathalie. Not when I expressed my needs or shared my secrets. I’m unsure of what to do with the information. My heart knows, but my brain is fighting against it.

When I release Nathalie from the kiss, her eyes are bright, and her cheeks rosy.

“Thank you. This was…more than I deserve.”

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