Page 105 of At First Smile
He squeezes my middle. “It’s not a ring. We’re not there yet.”
Yet?The word both taunts and comforts. I’m not sure what scares me more, that it may happen or the idea of it not.
With Alex, even after six months of dating, I couldn’t envision a future with him. Beyond the excuses that it was too soon when he proposed, and I wasn’t ready, I knew Alex wasn’t my tomorrow. With Rowan, he’s my today and I can almost feel the warm kiss of a breaking dawn in the way he holds me.
With a click, I open the box revealing a pair of earrings. Squinting, I trace each earring’s shape. Forehead wrinkled, I gasp, “Are these…”
“I had them made. It’s a hockey stick and a white cane twisted to form a heart.”
Every bit of the emotion in my chest rushes to my throat, making it nearly impossible to speak. Tears prick, but I blink them away. Taking out my gold hoops, I put on the silver dangly earrings.
Spinning to face him, I offer a big grin. “How do I look?”
His thumb glides along my jawline. “Perfect.”
“I love you.” I place his hand on my heart, its beat reminiscent of a horse’s gallop. “So much.”
“You say that now, just wait until my mam pulls out the photo albums.”
“Please tell me there was an awkward phase and you weren’t always a sexy god?”
Alas,Rowan’s always been a sexy god. My expression bounces between annoyance and gaping as I sit beside his mom on the couch in the family room. Using the magnification feature on my phone, I flip through page after page of adorable boys who became cute teenagers and then turned into gorgeous men.
“Fiona, where are the embarrassing pictures? The ones with bad haircuts and acne?” I guffaw and turn to a picture of all three brothers in suits for a family wedding. “Don’t moms live for embarrassing their children? I know my mom loves to pull out the pictures from when I cut my own bangs when I was twelve.”
“Oh, but my boys do a fine enough job taking a piss out of each other. They don’t need me to do that,” she says, her warm Irish lilt hums in my ears.
The anxiety that swirled in my belly throughout our ninety-minute drive to Hamilton is now a calm ocean. Warmth radiates from Fiona. The moment we entered the house, she foldedher arms around me and then bestowed on to me aSociety of Headstrong Obstinate Girlssticker, an outline of Elizabeth Bennet below the script letters, for Cane Austen, which I promptly put on.
It’s clear her boys’ height comes from both she and her late husband, but her fair complexion and blonde mane seem to have only been gifted to Finn. Rowan and Gillian’s darker features are almost carbon copies of the pictures of Axel in the photo album.
“Don’t worry, Pen.” Finn places the tea service on the coffee table. “I have all the best Rowan stories. Did I tell you about the time Gillian convinced him that mayonnaise would stop the itching from the poison ivy he’d gotten?”
“He didn’t?” I cover my mouth to stifle my loud snicker.
Fiona pours two cups of tea. “I found him stark naked smothered in mayo in the kitchen.” Handing me a cup of tea, she tips her head towards her other two sons. “These two hooligans were laughing like hyenas.”
Finn now sits in the chair to the right of the couch. Gillian, who’s said only two to three words all afternoon, broods in the corner. His head tilts between us and the bay window that overlooks the front yard.
“I was seven! Of course, I believed my big brother.” Rowan groans beside me, his arm looped around my waist.
“For a time, whatever Gillian said, you believed.” Finn chuckles, reaching across the table for a scone.
“A power he took advantage of,” Rowan snipes quietly.
“Perhaps.” Fiona clears her throat. “But what I also remember is a big brother that used my cookie cutters to make reindeer tracks in the snow on Christmas morning before you woke, so that you thought Santa had come.”
Rowan shifts beside me and coughs. “I didn’t know that.”
“I told you he’s got a soft nougaty inside.” Finn’s tone is playful but shaded with a twinge of smugness.
“Sure.” Rowan’s mutter elicits a quiet but annoyed breath from Fiona.
I squeeze Rowan’s forearm. “It really is sweet,” I say, offering Gillian a soft smile. I can’t help but wonder what happened to the boy who got up early to extend his younger brother’s belief in Santa just a little bit longer.
Rowan reaches for the plate of pastries. “Do you want a scone, luv?”
“Yes please, baby.”
