Page 89 of Back to December
My Holden would tease me for not cringing at the word “wife”, not that he’s used it recently. And I suppose under normal circumstances, I would. But that’s because I didn’t understand what that word meant.
This morning, it’s the word I focus the most on. Every time the word passes his lips, I want to record it so I can replay it anytime I want to. Orneedto.
“Even when I act nuts after too much melatonin?”
That’s an easier excuse than reality. We’ll just keep running with that.
“Even then,” he says.
“What about when I push you away?” My eyes sting with tears. “Or when I’m struggling to process my trauma? That’s a lot of baggage, Holden.”
He tugs me closer, so I’m practically cradled in his arms. “I loved you before you knew youhadtrauma, Laila. Why wouldn’t I love you while you’re healing from it? Every day can’t be perfect. We’ll always have messes to work through.”
I didn’t know how much I needed those words.
“What’s your sweet?” I whisper.
I don’t know if we still do this. But I suddenly need to know.
He grins. “There’s my girl. The day is still young, but I think it’s this—a lazy morning at home with my beautiful wife and kids.”
It dawns on me he’s not at the bakery. Usually, he’s up earlier than I am, prepping for the day long before I crawl out from beneath the covers. Now doesn’t seem like the best time to ask, especially when I’m not sure what day or year it is.
“I think mine might be gingerbread pancakes, if you ever offer me any.”
He feigns a pained expression and dramatically leans back, taking me with him.
“Geez, La—go right for the heart shot.”
“You love it when I compliment your food,” I tease. “But fine, you’re mine too.”
He balances us both—like one wrong answer will topple us over instead of righting us. That’s impressive core work, and now I’m curious about a lot more than his work schedule.
“Yourwhat,Laila?” he asks, his voice dropping low.
Then I squeal as he tips us all the way back onto the hardwood, cushioning me from hitting the floor.
“Mommy pile!” he shouts.
Suddenly, little bodies are crawling all over both of us. Holden curls inward, still holding me, but I’m being attacked by hands. Tiny hands and big husband hands.
“No—time out! This is grossly unfair! I’m outnumbered!” I yelp between giggles.
Holden is in my ear. “What’s your sweet, honey?”
“You. It’s always you.”
I’m gasping for air at this point. The man must’ve told themeverysingle tickle spot I have, and unfortunately, there are a lot.
“That earns you some gingerbread pancakes,” he says, sitting up.
His dark hair is ruffled, and we’re both out of breath, but I can’t think of a single time I found him more attractive. I can’t believe I’ve been afraid ofthisthe whole time.
I want more of this in spades.
Since I don’t know the rules of how affectionate parentsare allowed to be in front of kids, I seek an immediate subject change.
I’m having a lot of feelings about everything I woke up to, and Holden is here not only making it feel normal, he’s making it something I’m greedy for. He’s also saying all the right things—things my Holden would say if I gave him the chance—and pulling me into this family I didn’t know I wanted.
