Page 29 of Yours, Now and Always
Directly ahead, the grand staircase curves up and to the right. Wooden and solid, the banister still has little nicked places we never fixed on purpose.
To the left is the sitting room. Gage had it opened up early in the renovations. He told the contractor,“I want her to walk in and feel like the house is breathing. No doors. No stiff angles. She hates formal.”And now, it does. The whole room feels like an exhale.
The walls are rough stone, the color of sun-washed beige, and the furniture is all deep cream and warm rust—low armchairs and a sprawling couch made from soft fabric that practically begs you to stay too long.
We haven’t broken it in yet. Haven’t sat there together, haven’t curled up under a blanket and talked until we forget what time it is. But I know we will. It’s that kind of couch. The kind that’s going to hold conversations we didn’t even know we needed.
A fireplace is set into the far wall, carved stone etched with time, stacked with logs, and ready to glow. An antique wood sideboard sits nearby, home to our mismatched mugs, whiskey bottles and puzzles.
There are books stashed everywhere. In the shelves along the wall and stacked beside armchairs, ready to read. Most of them are recent arrivals. I brought some up from the city and picked others up locally while we were renovating and dreaming of reading here.
Gage didn’t pay much attention to my books until he realized half of what I read involves emotionally repressed men doing obscene things on furniture. Now he asks a lot of questions. Sometimes with his hands.
This room says:Welcome. We love you. Please stay awhile. Take off your shoes and tell me your day. You matter here.
The air smells of cedar and us, held like a memory. Books. Woodsmoke. Gage’s cologne.
My boots are soft on the rug before I stop and take it all in. And for once, I don’t rush through it. Don’t move fast because there’s somewhere else to be. Something else to do.
This is the first time we’ve been here like this. Not mid-construction. Not with a to-do list in one hand and a measuring tape in the other.
This time, it’s justus.
All of us.
In our home.
“It feels different with the girls here,” I murmur, looking at the stairs where they just were.
Gage doesn’t say anything. He simply slides his hand into mine and waits for me to feel all my feelings.
And holy god, I’m feeling them.
We’re not just standing in a house.
We’re standing in the life we’re building.
CHAPTER 12
AMELIA
My husband has a problem.
Namely, that I exist, and he’s supposed to somehow function while I do.
And honestly? I support his struggle.
But lately, he’s developed a second problem.
This one has to do with the fact I’ve embraced a dangerous new obsession with wearing his white button-down shirts like they’re just...clothes.
They are not.
Not to him.
Not when I wear one around our home, the hem barely covering my ass, the top few buttons living in early retirement.
Not when I cuff the sleeves and wear it with wild hair and no bra like I’m out here casually stress-testing every boundary he swears he has.
