Page 7 of Bloom

I’m pretty surethiswas my real loss.

The rev of an engine draws me from my thoughts. Peering out the window above the kitchen sink, I kiss my teeth at the familiar vehicle driving at a snail’s pace towards the house.

Of course, they’re early.

Nerves twist my gut as I step out onto the porch just as a truck rolls to a stop right near the bottom of the steps. Even before the tall, long-haired man climbs out the driver’s side, I can see Jackson’s frown.

Once upon a time, I could expertly measure my ex-boyfriend’s mood by the magnitude of those frowns, by the depth of the wrinkles etched in tan skin. I used to mold myself around them, decide what I needed to be based on them—Happy Caroline, Comforting Caroline, Quiet Caroline. If I really tried, I could probably decipher them again, figure out whether he’s pissed, confused, moderately irked by my presence.

I don’t, though. I know well enough by now that if he can’t have Absent Caroline, Politely Distant Caroline is Jackson’s preference. And his girlfriend’s too—Luna might act chill about the Ghost of Girlfriend’s Past hanging around, but I know not to push my luck.

As she emerges from the passenger’s seat, she’s a lot quicker to hide her surprise than her boyfriend. When I lift my hand in acknowledgement, she does too, and her wave is just as awkwardas mine likely is. Her smile is warm, though. It usually is, with the exception of the first time we met, but God knows I deserved that.

Funerals make me feel weird. Jackson makes me feel weird. Combine the two and you get me at my absolute worst; acting like an asshole at his mom’s funeral, trying to help, but really making everything worse. Plus, seeing Jackson and Luna together, watching him look at her in a way he never looked at me, watching him rely on her in a way he never did with me… It was pathetic, how I acted. It’s been years—almost half a decade should be long enough to get over someone. Not that I’m not over him. It’s just… I don’t know. Something else. Something I can't place or name or quite put my finger on.

Like I said, pathetic.

But the good news is I’m adapting. I can be in their presence without choking on the stench of rejection, of failure, of wasted years and love and effort. But am I relieved when Lux eases herself out of the backseat, refuses their help far too aggressively for someone cradling a baby and hobbling on unsteady legs, and commands them to check on the ranch’s equine population before she does it herself?

Yes. Yes, I am.

“What’re you doing here?”

I catch my face before it falls completely. Rushing to help Lux up the porch steps, I guide her through the front door while rambling an excuse. “Sorry. I was dropping some things off and you got back sooner than I—”

“Line.” Lux sighs a weary noise. “It was just a question. Not an accusation.”

“Oh.” I reign in another apology just before it escapes, smiling sheepishly. “Welcome home.”

Tiredly murmuring her thanks, Lux settles into the chair I pull out from the kitchen table. When I take the seat beside her,she shifts purposefully, tilting the bundle in her arms my way. Trying, and likely failing miserably, not to seem too eager, I lean in to catch my first glimpse of the newest member of the Jackson family. Almost immediately, tears prick my eyes. “Lux, he's your twin.”

Undeniably, that tiny, tan, wrinkled face is a Jackson. It’s as if his father had as little involvement in his development as he will in his upbringing.

Asshole.

“Right?” Lux hums softly, wearing a look of pure and utter adoration as she swipes a thumb over her son’s forehead. “Alex,” she coos, and I fight a laugh. Of course, she named him that—naming her son after herself is a veryAlexandramove. “You wanna say hi?”

One second, he’s in her arms. The next, before I even have a chance to protest, he’s being transferred into mine. I hold my breath as I hold him stiffly, too scared to move. When was the last time I held a baby? Have I ever held a baby? I honestly don't know. I do know that if anyone was going to drop this kid on his head, it would be me. And that if anyone could inspire a sudden screaming fit within a Jackson, it would likely be me too.

“Relax.” Lux huffs a quiet laugh, the exhaustion clearly weighing her down alleviating enough for amusement to shine through. “He’s not a bomb.”

No. But he’s tiny and fragile and, God, so cute. Blinking sleepily, that few-day-old face creases in a frown, like he knows it’s not his mom cradling him anymore and he’s not sure how to feel about it. Trying my best to sound comforting, I croon a quiet greeting. When he squawks a tiny baby noise in reply, my heart tumbles wildly in my chest. “I think I’m obsessed with your kid.”

“Join the club.” Lux strokes her son’s face again before slumping in her seat, rolling her shoulders with a low groan. As she drops her head back to stretch out her neck, she mustcatch sight of the items littering the counter that weren’t there when she left because her brows shoot up to her hairline. “Jesus, Line.”

Admittedly, I went a little overboard on some things—one Google search of the best teas for postpartum and breastfeeding moms, and I got lost in a dark, fragrant spiral that turned into a whole hamper of teas, soaps, and candles. The welcome home banner was a necessity, though. So were the carrot cake cupcakes from that bakery in Ponderosa Falls, the next town over, that Lux loves. I couldn’tnotadd a plant or two—non-toxic, air purifying, low maintenance plants, of course.

Lux snorts, eyes rolling before they land on the overflowing bag of diapers half-hidden in the laundry room. “A little?”

I pretend to be very busy cooing over Alex, and decide not to mention the homemade meals stocking her refrigerator and freezer. She’ll find them on her own soon enough. Maybe she’ll assume they were someone else’s doing, and I won’t have to feel awkward about overstepping.

With another eye roll that I swear is audible, Lux scoots her chair closer so she can slip an arm around my shoulders in a careful sideways hug. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Leaning into her embrace as much as I dare with such precious cargo in my grasp, I shrug. “I wanted to.”

The woman I was so desperate to be liked by for so many years, who I often thought was the coolest person alive—neither sentiments of which were returned—drops her head to my shoulder. “You wanna stay for dinner?”

I start to decline, but a hand whacking my thigh cuts me off. “That was a rhetorical question. You’re staying.”

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