JACKSON
We've fallen into something of a routine, the three of us. Some days, April picks up Athena from school and brings her either home or to piano lessons at the Chicago School of Music. On days April works long shifts at Uncommon Ground, I take off early and pick up Athena myself. By 7pm, all of us are eating dinner together. We haven't missed a day in almost four weeks.
Tonight, we had lasagna, and I'd been working on it since 4pm when Athena and I got home. April was weary when she walked through the door in her suit from the restaurant, but a smile still lit up her features. Her smile has a way of doing that - changing everyone's mood. We'd all eaten together and listened to Athena talk about how she was frustrated with learning to read music. She's having a hard time understanding why she needs to read it when she can simply hear a piece and play it by heart. Usually, April would try and instill the notion that knowing what the notes mean is just as important as playing them, but she was silent tonight.
Now, Athena is asleep upstairs and the two of us are in the kitchen. April is at the sink, scraping the lasagna pan in a rhythmic manner, a grating sound reverberating throughout the room. I've just carried in the last of the dishes from the table, so I stand beside her for a moment, just watching.
"What?" she snaps, surprising me.
I recoil, having not expected such a biting tone. Her face had been placid, calm even, but her voice is the opposite. "Nothing," I say submissively. "Just looking at you."
"Oh," she says, continuing to scrape the pan. She holds it with one hand and with the other, goes mad with the flat edge of a metal spatula. Her elbow moves up and down as she works on the burnt-on noodles, eyebrows set in low concentration.
"Am I allowed?" I ask, trying to lighten the mood.
"I guess," she mutters without looking up. She inhales tiredly and says, "You should've sprayed this first."
"My bad," I say. "I didn't think."
"Yeah, I can see that," she says. "Because I'm still here scraping off these noodles."
"You don't have to," I say. "I can do it."
I reach for the pan, but she shoots me a warning look and shakes her head. "No," she says. "You cooked."
"Well, it's my mess," I say. "I feel bad that you're still working on it."
"Whoever cooks doesn't clean," she says. "Like always. I'm fine, Jackson. I'll get it done."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes," she says tautly, then looks back to the sink to continue scraping.
"Alright," I say, moving to load the dishes into the dishwasher.
"Those still need to be rinsed," she says, looking over with just her eyes. "I'll do it, just don't worry about it."
"I can help," I say. "There's a lot to get done."
"I've got it," she insists again, eyes wide. "You're getting in the way. I'll be done quicker if you just… go do something."
"Jesus, alright," I say, backing off with my palms raised.
"Don't do that," she says. "Don't act like I'm horrible."
"Well, you're biting my head off for no reason," I mumble, eyebrows raised as I walk away.
"I just don't know why you're trying to change the routine," she says, turning on the faucet to rinse off the noodle debris.
"You seem upset," I say. "I was just trying to help."
"If I needed help, I'd ask," she says, reaching to flick on the garbage disposal.
"Would you?" I say.
"What's that mean?" she spits, narrowing her eyes.
"It means I think something's on your mind that you're not telling me," I say. "You've been so quiet the past few days. Now, you're pissed at me about a fucking pan."
"You should've- oh, my god," she says, shaking her head while continuing to dig at the dish. "All you needed to do was lightly grease it. It literally says it right there on the recipe. Then I wouldn't be standing here getting mad over a 'fucking pan.'"
"I forgot, April," I say. "It didn't seem that important."
"Well, it was," she says. "Because I'm gonna wear the protective coat off this thing if I keep at it any longer."
"Then stop," I say. "Put it in the dishwasher. Just forget about it."
"The dishwasher will not get this off," she says, going harder.
"It doesn't matter," I say. "Just leave it. So what, if there are a few spots."
"It's not 'so what,'" she says. "It's gross. I'm gonna get it off. Will you just let me?"
"Fine," I say, turning to head towards the living room. I turn on a show to get my mind on something else, but the sound of the spatula can still be heard over it. I resist the urge to go back in there and just take it from her; that would not go over well. She's been in an incorrigible mood over the past few days and denies it whenever I bring it up. She hasn't been acting like herself, but I have no clue why. She's been disappearing into her head, only half-present for everything. She's been tired, lethargic even, not talkative at all. I've asked her if anything is wrong what feels like a thousand times, and if I push the subject more, I'll get my head bitten off. I can just hope she comes to me with it on her own.
I stay on the couch with the TV on until everything goes quiet. I notice the lack of noise, and it strikes me as odd that April doesn't appear upon finishing. I wait a few more minutes, but still nothing happens. So, with furrowed eyebrows, I get up and walk into the kitchen to find her doubled over, leaning on the island with her head in her hands. Hearing my footsteps, though, she snaps to an upright position and pushes her hair out of her face. "You scared me," she mutters.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
She shakes her head like it's nothing. "Just resting," she says.
"Seems like an odd place to rest," I say. "I'm watching New Amsterdam, if you wanna come join. New episode just started."
"I don't know," she says.
"Oh… okay," I say, still hovering. The question is on the tip of my tongue and there's no way I can hold it back. It's right there. "Baby, are you okay?"
She sighs, resting against the countertop while avoiding my eyes. Her hands are red from the hot water - so red, they look painful. "I'm fine," she says. "Just tired."
"You haven't been yourself in days," I say, not letting her off the hook this time. "I know something's up."
"I'm fine, Jackson," she reiterates, but her facial expression is anything but fine. Her skin is lackluster, her cheeks are sallow and there are dark circles beneath her eyes. Even her lips are pallid; this is the most exhausted I've ever seen her.
"Have you been sleeping?" I ask.
Admittedly, I fall asleep fast every night. I make sure she's comfortable, of course, and say goodnight, but I've never had problems with sleep. I'd have no idea whether or not she's had issues. "I'll be fine," she says, avoiding the question.
"April," I say seriously.
"I just wanna sit down, okay?" she says. "Can we go watch our show?"
With a small sigh, I concede. I wrap an arm around her shoulders and kiss her temple, then walk with her back to the living room where the TV is paused. We sit on the couch like we normally do - my back against the arm as she rests between my legs, the back of her head on my collarbone. I wrap an arm around her sternum and kiss the side of her head over her hair, and she relaxes into me. "I love you," I tell her softly.
She overlaps my hand with hers, fingers dancing over my knuckles in the dainty way they always do. "Love you, too," she says weakly.
Something still pulls at me; I know she's not telling me the truth about being okay. I can tell by the way she talks, the way she holds herself. It's clear something is bothering her, but I can't force it out. She's stubborn; I'll just have to wait. So, I move my arm lower to get comfortable, slipping a hand underneath her shirt to rest on her soft, bare belly, and stroke her skin in the way she loves. The show begins but before ten minutes even go by, her body has gone slack with sleep.
I let her rest. It's clear she's tired, and I like the way she feels against me. Vulnerable, soft, and sleep-heavy. Her breath comes deeply, her heart pumps slow, and she makes quiet sounds in the back of her throat as she drifts further and further away. I close my eyes and press my cheek against her head, feeling a thousand sweet emotions flow through me as I relish her body so close to mine. When the show is over and it's time to head up to bed, I almost can't bear to wake her. I do, though. A night on the couch won't be good for either of us. "April," I say, taking my hand out from her shirt to drag my fingers up her arm. "Baby."
"Hmm," she hums, turning to snuggle closer against my chest.
I smile to myself and pat the dip of her waist. "Show's over," I say. "You wanna go to bed?"
"Mm-mm," she says, shaking her head no.
"Well, we should," I say. "This couch will kill my back."
"Old," she murmurs, and I snort as she sits up and rubs her eyes. She looks at the TV then back to me, saying, "I fell asleep."
"Yeah, you did," I say, thumbing a bit of dried saliva off of her cheek. "Hard, too."
"Did I miss the show?" she asks confusedly.
"Yeah," I say. "It was a good one, too. Dr. Reynolds and Bloom just-"
"No, don't tell me," she says, one hand flat on my chest. "I'll watch tomorrow."
We head upstairs slowly, April trailing behind dragging her feet. We brush our teeth in the master bathroom, and she washes her face with care, then puts her hair into the bun she normally sleeps in. I'm already lying down when she crawls under the covers, and even with the lights off I can tell she's staring at the ceiling, a thousand thoughts running through her head. But before I can ask her to open up yet again, she starts to cry.
I turn on the bedside lamp and lift onto an elbow, watching her face even as she covers it with both hands. She sniffles and whimpers, wiping the moisture off her cheeks, and all I do is rest a hand on her stomach. "What is it?" I ask softly.
Her chest heaves as she sobs, breath catching in her throat with each one. She turns to face me, curling into herself, and I brush her hair out of her face before kissing what of her forehead I can reach. "I'm so embarrassed," she says, hiccupping.
"Don't be…" I say, petting her hair. "You can tell me anything, you know that."
She turns to press her face into the pillow and lets out a broken moan, trying to catch her breath after. "I can't afford my life right now," she says, face still obstructed by her hands. She really is ashamed.
"What do you mean?" I ask.
She sniffles in, long and hard. "I mean…" she begins. "I'm not getting a second income since I'm not Athena's nanny anymore. Uncommon Ground doesn't pay enough and I'm already working as many hours there as I'm allowed. And on top of that, Steph is moving out and I can't afford the apartment without her."
So, that's what it is. All week, that's what's been on her mind and worrying her. And right now, it's coming out in the form of racking sobs and whimpers as she cries. I don't need time to think about it; the answer is right there. It's simple. "Move in with us," I say.
She stops crying instantly, stunned. Her hands come away from her face and she looks at me with glistening cheeks and eyes bloodshot as hell. "What?" she peeps.
"Move in here," I say, like it's nothing at all. "You already spend most of your time here anyway. I can't remember the last time you went home."
She wipes her nose with the back of her hand, still giving me that deer-in-the-headlights expression. "I… I can't do that," she says.
"Why not?" I ask.
"Be-because," she says, eyebrows low. "Jackson, that's crazy."
"Is it, though?" I continue.
"Yes," she says. "I… we've only known each other, like… what, six months? We haven't even been dating that long. Moving in together… that's huge."
"I know," I say. "That's why I'm suggesting it."
She blinks and the tears clinging to her eyelashes trickle down her face. "I…" she stammers, opening and closing her mouth without much to say. "What about Athena?"
"She would see you even more frequently. She would love it."
April chews her lip, still troubled. "What about… what would your family think?" she asks weakly.
"It doesn't matter what they think," I say. "It's not their business. You're our family, baby, mine and Thena's. I hope you count us as yours, too. That's why I think it makes sense for you to move in. Yeah, it's fast. But don't you think it would happen eventually? That's where my mind is, at least."
"I know it'll happen eventually," she says quietly, hands tucked under her chin. "But…" She sighs. "My dad hasn't even met you. I don't know what he'd think. And I know, I heard what you just said about it being our business, but… I don't know. I've left him out of so many other life choices that it feels wrong to do it with one as big as this."
"Then we won't," I say. "I'd love to meet him. Is he free this weekend?"
...
In the car on the way to Ohio, April is unnervingly quiet. I stopped trying to engage her in conversation a few hours ago, though I felt in bad doing so. Athena has been quite the chatterbox, going on about what she's been learning in piano lessons and what she wants to teach April. She's asked a thousand questions about April's father - what his house is like, his neighborhood, his age, his demeanor. April stopped giving worthwhile answers around the same time she shut me out. She seems to be depleted of energy, still in a funk, but a different one from a few days prior.
I can't help but worry that she's not ready for us to meet, her father and me. Athena, too. But if she weren't ready, she would've said something. That's how April is; she's honest. If she didn't want it to happen, we wouldn't be in the car right now. I still can't help but feel concerned that she's becoming flighty, though. She hasn't stopped wringing her hands for at least an hour, and when I take one of them in mine to calm her, it's cold and sweaty.
"You okay?" I ask, and it's actually the first time. I've been trying to stop breathing down her neck, trusting she'll come to me with her problems when she's ready.
"Nervous," she murmurs, clasping my fingers tighter.
That brings me a sense of relief. The nerves are normal, it's not something deeper, not something that calls for a conversation. The feeling will go away as soon as the hard part is over. Surprisingly, I'm not anxious at all. I'm actually looking forward to meeting her dad, someone so important to her. It'll be like getting a peek into her past, and I'm very interested in doing that. If he raised a daughter as kind, thoughtful and smart as April, he must be a great guy.
"Why're you nervous, April?" Athena pipes up from the back seat.
"Well, because my dad is… my dad," April says, after taking a while to answer. "I want him to like you guys. It matters a lot to me."
"Duh, he's gonna like us. I'm me! And everybody likes my dad. Except me sometimes," she says.
"Hey," I say playfully, squinting at her in the rearview.
She giggles, amused with herself. "Only when you're a meanie," she says. "And bossy."
"I am never bossy," I joke.
"April, is your dad bossy?" Athena asks.
"No, not really," April says.
"Am I gonna like him?"
"I hope so."
It isn't much further to April's childhood home, and when we pull up in the driveway, Athena is amazed. "Look at all the grass!" she shouts. "It's all over!" We don't have much of a yard in Chicago, and before now I never thought twice about it. Now, I can't say as much. My daughter's eyes are huge and shiny as she takes in the yard, so big I can barely see the woods at the back. "April, did you get to play on all that?" she asks. "When you were little?"
"Yeah," April says. "All the time."
"Nuh-uh!"
"It's too bad he took down my old swing set," she says.
We get out of the car and Athena stands on her tiptoes, craning her neck towards the house. "Is there a piano in there?" she asks.
"Yeah," April says, voice catching in her throat.
"Your old one?"
"Yep."
"Can I play it?"
"Thena, calm down," I say, one hand on her shoulder. "Let's get inside and get settled first, okay? You're bombarding April with too much."
"Am I being too much?" Athena asks April, turning her head.
"It's fine," she answers.
"She's fine, Daddy," Athena says, tugging on my hand. "I just wanna know if I can play the piano. Maybe I can show her daddy how good I am."
"I don't know," I say. "Maybe. Let's feel it out, okay? How about we just be still for a while. April is nervous, remember?"
Athena lets go of my hand and makes her way over to April, wrapping both her arms around one of April's. "It's okay," she tells her. "Don't be scared. Dads always like each other 'cause they think the same."
April smiles weakly, saying, "You think?"
"Yeah. They think boring."
"I heard that," I grumble.
We arrive at the front door and don't even need to knock before a white-haired man answers with a wide smile. I know where April got hers now, but the eyes must be her mother's because his are a light chestnut brown. "You're here!" he announces.
"Hi, daddy," April says meekly.
"Baby," he says, pulling her into a tight hug. "So good to see you."
She pulls away and wraps one arm around Athena's shoulders, gesturing towards her. "Dad, this is Athena. And this is her father, Jackson."
"Jackson, her boyfriend," Athena clears up, raising her hand. "Jackson is her boyfriend."
April's dad laughs and reaches for my hand, giving me a hearty handshake. "Good to meet you, Jackson," he says. "I'm Joe." Then, he kneels to Athena's level and shakes her hand, too. "Thanks for coming all this way," he says to her. "I'm Joe."
Athena leans against April's leg, still clutching her hand. "You're April's daddy?" she asks and Joe nods. "Her mommy died?" He nods again, this time a bit sadder. "Mine did, too," Athena finishes.
"I heard," he says. "And I'm very sorry to hear that."
"Thanks," I say.
"Why don't you come inside? I made sandwiches," Joe says. "We can eat on the back patio; it's a three-season porch. It's so nice out there right now with all the leaves, you'll love it."
We walk inside, take off our shoes, and Athena pipes up again. "Do you have a piano?" she asks.
Joe looks down at her with curiosity. "Yes, I do," he says. "The one April started playing when she was a bit younger than you. Played it all the way 'til she moved out."
"I can play," Athena says. "I know how."
"So I heard," Joe says, eyebrows up.
"Did you know I'm a prodigy?" she asks.
"Thena," I say. "Don't brag."
"I'm not," she insists. "I am one."
Joe laughs heartily. "She's funny," he says. "But yes, I have heard that. I heard you're very good. Would you like to play it?"
"Later," I say, eyeing Athena before she can answer. "We'll eat first. You cooked for us."
"Well, I'd barely call it cooking," he says, leading the way into the kitchen. "I threw some ingredients together, that's about as culinary as I get. But it should taste good and it'll fill you up, that's for sure. Wanna dig in?" We all agree and make up plates for ourselves before heading to the porch like he suggested. Athena sits on April's lap and I sit on the futon next to Joe, who's already made me feel at home. He's very easy to be around much in the way that April is. "So, how'd you two meet?" he asks, though I'm sure he already knows.
Athena doesn't give either of us time to answer before she takes the floor. "April was my nanny and then Daddy started to love her. So, they wanted to be together like boyfriend and girlfriend, which means she isn't my nanny anymore. But now, I see her even more. She's around all the time. And when she stays over, she sleeps in bed with my dad and on Saturday mornings, we have pancakes. On school mornings, she gets me up and if we have time, she snuggles with me. Or I go to their bed in the night and snuggle with her there."
Joe laughs amusedly. "Well, there you go," he says. "Sounds like you have a great thing going."
"We do," I say, glancing at April with a smile. She's wearing one, too, but her eyes aren't in it. The nerves should be gone by now. Her dad and I are getting along great; I'm not sure what else there is to stress about.
"How long have you two been seeing each other?" he asks.
I look to April to see if she plans on answering; I don't want to take over the conversation. She's barely paying attention, though; her eyes are out the window and she's leaning the side of her face against Athena's shoulder. "About four or five months," I say. "Known each other for a bit longer than that."
"We're moving in together soon," April chimes in, surprising me. Athena smiles, having already heard the news and gotten excited about it.
"You are?" Joe asks.
"If that's alright," she says warily.
"Honey, you're a grown-up. You don't have to ask my permission for things like that."
"I know," she says quietly.
"And I think it's great anyway," he says with a smile, a genuine one. "When's the wedding? When are the babies?"
I laugh a bit uncomfortably and look to April for support, but she offers none. Instead, a strange look comes over her face as she lifts my daughter off of her lap and stands up, setting her plate to the side as she leaves the room. "Where are you going, April?" Athena calls after her, but she doesn't answer.
"Was it something I said?" Joe asks. "Jeez, I'm sorry. Sometimes, she can be… I don't know. Hard to read. She seems a little off today, don't you think?"
"Yeah," I say, eyes on the door that she just walked out of. "Thena, are you gonna be alright here if I go check on April?"
"Can I play piano?" she asks, looking between me and Joe.
"Sure," I say. "As long as you ask Joe."
"I would love that," he says. "Come on, Mozart, let's go see how the old thing sounds." Then, he looks to me and says, "She's probably in her room. Upstairs, first door on your left."
I hear my daughter start to tell him about how Debussy is her favorite, not Mozart, before I find my way to the stairs. The house is quiet, so when the notes of Ballade float through the air, they resound clear and crisp. I hope April can hear them from where she is, too.
I go up the stairs and follow Joe's directions, finding the room in question with the door cracked. I linger near the opening, knocking on the frame before saying, "April, are you in there?"
"Yeah," she answers immediately. "You can come in."
I push open the door to a whirlwind of pink. Pink walls with pink bead curtains, but with white furniture. This room is everything that a girl in the 90s would dream of. There's a canopy bed with frills that she's sitting on, and even now it dwarfs her. I can't imagine what it was like when she was a kid. "Hey," I say, looking around.
"I know, it's very Pepto-Bismol," she says. "I was really into pink."
"I can see that," I say, then nod towards a poster on the far wall. "And the Backstreet Boys, too, I see."
"Yeah," she says, mustering a laugh.
"Can I sit?"
She scoots over and pats the spot next to her, shoulders slumped forward. I sit down and lean my weight back on my hands, watching her face with care and curiosity. "I'm sorry I hid," she says.
"You're not hiding," I say. "I found you."
"Yeah," she says, hands on her knees. She sighs. "It's just a lot."
"What is?"
"Everything."
I nod slowly, trying to digest this. "You're gonna have to lay it out for me, babe," I say.
She takes a deep breath and looks towards the ceiling, fingernails scratching the fabric of her jeans. "My dad bringing up a wedding obviously wasn't the first time I've thought about it," she says. "But it was the first time he said it. And him saying it made me think about my mom."
I nod again, this time understanding more fully. "Oh," I say.
"And…" Her sentence fragments as she turns to look out the window and blinks hard, willing away tears. "And… I don't know. Thinking about a wedding without her there really, really kills me."
For a while, I don't know what to say and I'm not sure if there's anything that would fit. The silence feels wrong, though, so I reach forward and cap a hand over her knee as a comforting gesture. "But what do you always say, though?" I ask, and she looks to me with curiosity. "She would be there. Even if you can't see her."
Her face grows blotchy as she presses her lips together. A myriad of emotions floods her features, all too overwhelming to name. "I don't want it like that, though," she says, smacking one hand down on her thigh. "I want to see her. I wanna hug her and hear her say that she's proud of me. I want-"
"April, you know she's proud of you."
"Maybe, but I still want to hear her say it!" she sobs, then presses a finger under her nose. It must burn. "I'm sorry," she says, shaking her head. "I didn't mean to get upset."
"April?" There's a small voice in the doorway and only then do I realize the sounds of the piano downstairs have stopped. Athena is standing there looking cautious, leaning on the doorframe with wide, worried eyes. "Are you okay?"
April sniffles and tries to appear composed, though it doesn't quite work. "Yeah," she says, wiping under her eyes. "I'm fine."
"But you're crying," Athena says, padding into the room while keeping her eyes only on April. That is, until she reaches her and climbs onto her lap - then, she looks to me. "Did you make her cry?"
"No," I say.
She leans into April and rests her head on her chest, arms slung around her neck. "Don't be sad," she says, petting April's hair. "I promise, you don't have to get married 'til you're really, really ready." That sentence tells me she'd been eavesdropping for a bit but didn't pick up the gist of the conversation. I let a small smirk creep onto my face, but I don't let her see. "Okay?" she says. "Don't be scared. You're not gonna go away, are you?"
"No," April answers. "I'm staying right here."
"I want everything to stay the same," Athena says. "Daddy, don't talk about things that scare her. She doesn't like it."
"Alright," I say, smiling gently.
"April, just stay Daddy's girlfriend," Athena says. "If you're scared about a wedding, then just don't do it. I don't like to do things that scare me, either. So, I just don't."
"Okay," April says, holding my daughter tight. "Thanks, baby."
…
We spend a while longer at Joe's, and he apologizes for upsetting April, but the conversation doesn't go deeper than that. She doesn't allow it to; it's clear she's done talking about the matter. She doesn't hide in her shell for the rest of the afternoon, but she's still not herself. On the long car ride home, both she and Athena fall asleep and leave me with a long stretch of road and the quiet radio.
When we get home, I help Athena into bed and lock up the house, then go into our bedroom to find April already dressed down and under the covers. Her hair is in its typical bun, she's wearing a pink camisole - she's also looking at something in her hand, but I can't tell what it is. I don't ask; I just wash my face, brush my teeth, and get ready for bed myself before crawling in next to her, the light still on.
I don't have to ask what she's holding because she readily tells me. As soon as I get comfortable resting against the headboard, she turns to face me, legs folded over one another. "I was obsessed with weddings as a little kid," she says. "But only my mom knew, not my dad. We would sometimes buy bridal magazines and cut out our favorite things from them. Dresses, flowers, venues… all that stuff." She hands me a worn, softened piece of paper that must have come from one of those magazines. "This was the dress I always dreamed about," she says. "And Mom loved it for me. I don't necessarily like it all that much anymore - it's too fluffy and the beads are overkill, but we always went on and on about the sleeves." As she speaks, she traces a finger down the model's arms, grown fragile and wrinkled with time. "The long sleeves, we thought they were so unique and beautiful." She sighs and presses her palm against mine with the clipping in the middle, protecting it. "I don't know why I wanted to share that with you, but I did."
"Come here," I say, then place one hand on her jaw. I give her a long, sweet kiss and she lingers near my face once it's over, resting her forehead against mine. "Listen," I say. "I love you."
"I know," she whispers. "I love you, too."
"I mean… that because I love you, I would never try to rush you into anything. I don't want to move insanely fast. Just because we're gonna live together doesn't mean we have to get married tomorrow and try for a baby next week."
She nods, hand still clasped in mine. "Okay," she says quietly, features settling. She gets comfortable, lies down instead of sitting, and rests her head on my chest. With a flat hand over my stomach, she scoots closer and weaves her leg through both of mine, tangling us together. I wrap an arm around her shoulders and kiss her forehead, closing my eyes to take in the moment. "Okay," she says again.
"Alright?" I say, rubbing her outer arm. "The last thing I wanna do is scare you off."
"No, that wouldn't happen," she says, nuzzling her cheek against my shirt. "I just… I don't know. It's a lot to think about. And we are moving fast, you know? I mean, I love both of you so much. But that's what scares me - how much I already love you."
"I know," I say, lips moving against her hairline. We spend a bit longer in silence until I gather the courage to ask, "But is it something you'd want in the future? The wedding, the kids, the… everything. With me."
She tightens her arm around my waist and hugs me while letting out a long, cleansing breath. "Of course," she says.
"Okay," I say, feeling my chest grow lighter. "Just making sure." She nods and I pet her hair back, tracing the shell of her ear. "Are you still upset from earlier, about your mom?" I ask.
She nods again, this time slower. "But there's nothing I can do to fix it," she says. "It's not that I haven't accepted that she's gone. It's been 17 years, of course I've… yeah. But on the other hand, sometimes it still doesn't feel real. How did she not sit in the bathroom with me when I got my first period? How did she not help me get ready for senior prom? How was she not there at both of my graduations? And she won't be here for my wedding, whenever it is. It just… it doesn't seem right. It's real, but it's not right."
"No, of course it's not," I say, capping a hand over her shoulder.
"I guess I need to talk about it more," she murmurs, slipping a hand beneath my shirt while moving her thumb in circles. "Talking about it is good. It makes me feel better." She tips her head up to look in my eyes, and I crunch my neck to look back at her. "Do you mind? If I do that?"
"Of course not," I say. "You can talk to me about anything and everything."
"You're always gonna listen like this?" she asks.
"Always," I say.
A moment of pause passes over us before April speaks next. "I'm about to say something kind of scary," she says. "For me. It's scary to say it out loud."
"Alright."
"I want to do all that for Athena," she says. "Be there for her. I want to be the woman in her life who she'll never have to miss. I'll sit with her in the bathroom. I'll do her makeup for prom. I'll hold the video camera at graduation. I'll be at her wedding."
I smile, a warm feeling radiating throughout my entire body. "Can I be there for the wedding, too?" I ask. "Or do you plan on going alone?"
She smacks me softly, mood lightened. "Stop. You know what I mean," she says. "I just wanna be there for her."
"She wants that, too," I assure her.
"I think she's still scared I'm gonna leave," April says. "I wanna prove to her that I'm not." She looks up at me again. "And to you, too. I'm not going anywhere. I'm just… going slow."
"No one's rushing you," I say.
"My dad was," she grumbles.
I laugh a little. "Well, don't worry about him. This is between you and me - Athena, too. Our family. And as far as I'm concerned, you should take all the time you need."
…
April's attitude returns to its normal state quickly. We start having sex again, whereas we'd stopped for a couple weeks when she wasn't feeling like herself. Right now, we're in the private bathroom at The Whistler and Athena is with Maggie so we can have a night out.
On stage, April sounds beautiful as she always does, but there's something extra radiant about her tonight. She seems more present, more alive as she sings her own rendition of Joanne by Lady Gaga. There's a certain light in her eyes that tells me she's doing what she loves and she's happy with everyone watching her. I couldn't be prouder of not only what she's doing, but the fact that she's mine.
After her set is over, she thanks the audience and disappears backstage. I get up to go to meet her where I usually do, only not to find her there. I wait for a bit, wondering if she got caught up in the dressing room, until I turn around and see her talking to a man in jeans and a dress shirt. Her face is unreadable, scarily placid, and her hands are clasped at the waist. He's doing most of the talking - rambling on while using his hands to gesticulate, and she's nodding and adding a few words in here and there. I frown with interest, wondering what could be going on, and catch her eye after the conversation is over. Before walking away, he handed her what looked like a business card.
She heads over to me after tucking it away, clearly troubled. Her face is pale, and she lost the vitality she had on stage - now, she looks diminished in the way she had a few days ago. It replaces the pit in my stomach that was never welcome in the first place. "Is everything okay?" I ask, wrapping an arm around her waist.
"I'm ready to leave," she says tersely.
"Wait," I say. "What about…? It's date night. We haven't even eaten yet."
"My stomach hurts," she says, not even trying to act convincing. "I'm sorry, but can we just go home?" She pauses for a moment, the expression in her eyes pleading. "I really want to go home."
I open my mouth, only a small sound coming out at first. But then, I say, "Sure. Of course. Let's go."