The smell of coffee is what wakes me, pulling me out of sleep and into the morning sun that is filling my room from the open window. The mug is sitting on my bedside table, trails of steam still rising from it and I blink my way into the day. My alarm clock comes into focus, and I snap-to when I see the time. Even though it's Saturday, I have slept through Owen's typical wake-up time, and he should have come to jump into bed with me and wake me up, demanding my attention. But thankfully he hasn't this morning, because when I sit up I have to pull the blanket with me to cover my naked self. I rest my forehead in my hand and emit a tiny groan, the memories of last night flooding back to me.
After the frenzied reconnection and our declarations to each other, James and I had slowed down to reacquaint ourselves properly. We chased each other all over the bed, savoring the sensations and rushes that were a return home to something that we both had held onto in my absence. He spread his hands wide over my hips, measuring their new breadth and smoothing the stretch marks that cover where my body still bears testimony to the pregnancy.
"You're so beautiful," he'd whispered from his position between my legs, holding himself above me. I ran my fingertips down his abdomen and let them rest on the joint of his leg to his torso, tracing the v-line of his muscles with my thumb. He shivered a little at the contact but smiled when he dipped again to join us together. His lips traced every line of my body that they could cover and I returned the favor, letting go of the impulse to ask about the new scars on his back, or the little nicks on his face. I allow this new version of him to meld with the old one I've been carrying inside my head just as he must do the same with me.
I rise from the bed, pulling a thin blanket around myself while I gather jeans and a t-shirt, scooping up the coffee mug with my hand before I head towards the door. I open it slowly, peeking out to the hallway where I can see Owen's door is open and I can hear his voice coming from inside his room. There's a lower male voice as well, James', and I smile picturing them playing together on the floor. The bathroom is halfway down the hall between our rooms and I check my grip on everything before making my move. A few quick steps and I am inside, letting out a small sigh and dropping my clothes on the tile floor.
I take a long drink of coffee, noting how it's cooled to an agreeable temperature and I try estimating back how long ago it must have been placed beside my sleeping self. Slipping the blanket down over my shoulders, I examine the mark on the side of my neck, right where it slopes into my shoulder, where James had stifled his pleasure. I say a small prayer that it will be covered by my clothing.
Standing still in the shower I let the warm water flow over me , washing away the remains of sleep and the haze I had been in from the night before. It still doesn't seem real that the two men are here, like any second I will wake up for real and everything will be just the way it was twenty-four hours ago. It hasn't even been a whole day, and there are a thousand new details to be worked out now that the truth of our lives is between us. But despite my brain quickly getting overwhelmed, I feel a strange sense of light calm take over me. There have been so many moments of panic over the last few years that dealing with my son's father and how we will move forward as a family seems trivial. If I have handled myself this far, I can make it these next few days.
When I'm dried and dressed, I towel off my hair as best I can but let it stay down to air-dry, and assess myself in the mirror, trying to see what might be left over to be called beautiful from the person that James remembers. There are shadows under my eyes that never seem to go away, a minor concave to the cheeks, worry lines that come too easily in the space at the top of my nose, freckles smatter over my complexion from the days in the sun playing with Owen: all are things that age me. But there is the laugh lines at the corners of my mouth, the crows feet from giggling and singing and dancing with a child who brought so much and life and joy to me, and now there is a brightness in my eyes that hadn't been there before. A lightening of the irises that I attribute to the thin hope I've been tending that is swollen at the the prospect of the pieces of my little family being knit together at last.
Cradling my nearly empty mug of coffee I slip down the hall and creep up to the laughter coming from Owen's door. I find the two of them at opposite ends of the room, gathering their separate stuffed forces and positioning them for the coming battle. For a minute I go unnoticed, peering around the door to spy on the man and the boy, who is growing to be a smaller, softer, chubbier version of the adult. Owen directs most of the conversation, drabbling and babbling words that get jumbled in his mouth and catch behind his teeth like flotsam at a dam, trickling out in sentences that don't always make sense. James knits his brows together in concentration at trying to discern each and every word, but resorts to just nodding his head and says, "Okay", whenever Owen looks at him for assurance of comprehension.
I don't stay hidden for long, when Owen catches sight of me he smiles and makes little grabby-hands at me, an invitation to come in the room and see what they've gotten themselves into. James sits back on his heels and takes his chance to let his eyes roam over me, his smile growing the longer he can get away with it.
"How's the front this morning?" I say in as serious of a tone as I can without breaking into a smile.
Owen gestures at his line of animals, all facing down range from James, and babbles what sounds like serious plans to launch a massive opposition to the approaching forces. He then claps his hands together and makes a noise like a little explosion, emphasizing that the battle is expected to be brief due to his superior fire power. James stares at Owen with a mix of wonder and amusement, and that makes me smile more than Owen's recitation of his battle plans.
"How do you understand all that?" James says to me, his voice is warm and melts over me like honey.
"Practice," I answer before turning back to Owen.
"Well, sir," I say in my serious tone again, "Sounds like an excellent plan. I'll leave you to it." I stand up straight and salute him and he salutes back, causing James to split into a chuckle.
"Just one thing, soldier," I say to Owen before turning to leave. "Don't crush him too hard." I wink at James who looks confused as watches me go, missing the flight of the bear that connects solidly with his temple as I disappear. There's no time to wonder what Steve is up to, I descend to the living room and move to the kitchen to fill my cup again where I find him busy at mixing something in a bowl. I take in the flour, baking soda, egg shells, and milk still on the counter and guess on what we're going to have for breakfast.
"Pancakes?" I say and he turns around with a whisk in his hand and a grin to match the bright morning.
"Specialty," he says, not missing a beat with the whisk.
"I didn't know you could cook," I tease him while I fill my cup. "Or make decent coffee."
"What do you think we do all day when we're not saving the world?" he says, holding up the whisk to watch the pancake batter drip down, checking for consistency.
"Not this," I mutter. He sets the bowl of batter down on the counter and wipes his hands on a towel that he tosses next to the bowl and then crosses his arms to stare through me again. The gentle silence settles for a second before I start to squirm.
"What?" I say and take another drink of coffee.
"What's next," he says plainly.
"I don't know," I admit. "I don't have any idea."
"He's a good kid, you know," he says, shifting to an easier topic and a gentle pat on my shoulder
"I know," I can't help but smile, especially when the sound of my son's victory cries carry through the house.
"It took him a long time to be okay again after you left," Steve says, his face clouding and I can almost see the memories pass in front of his eyes. "He was fine, and then he found those results. Everything may seem okay right now, but he doesn't know what to do just as much as you don't. Keep that in mind."
We're interrupted by noise on the stairs but I keep my eyes on Steve's as Owen comes running into the kitchen and latches himself to my legs, followed soon after by James whose eyes shift between Steve and I, understanding that he's just walked into the middle of our conversation.
"I win!" Owen says and smiles up at me. I ruffle his hair and he lets go to pull out a chair and clamber up to the table, claiming his spot for breakfast. Steve heats a pan and drops measuring cups of batter into it, flipping the golden cakes and depositing them on plates. Owen tries to cut his own, but I have to help him, and I wonder if James is taking this in, but when I glance over at him his eyes are staring down at his own plate, worry lines etched in his brows. It makes my bits of hope falter a little.
Despite our unusual circumstances, we make a normal day of this Saturday. The boys play in the fenced off yard area behind the house, leaving me alone to clean up from breakfast and afterwards end up watching them from the kitchen window. Owen chases each of them in turn, running circles around the yard without showing any signs of tiring. Someday I will have to explain to him why the other kids can't keep up, why he's special, but I'm just not sure how I will find the words to convey what happened to his father without help.
James drops to the sparse grass and lays out, feigning defeat, and Owen jumps on him, laughing and giggling the whole time.
We make a run to the grocery store, garnering some looks from people I know from town with the two strangers in tow, but I keep us steering clear of confrontations with fancy maneuvering of the cart down the aisles, evading the more snooping prone neighbors that happen our way. Steve volunteers to make chili for dinner, and heads off to gather his supplies, at which point I turn around and come face to face with Owen and James standing side by side, both laden with treats for the movie marathon they insist we are going to have tonight. A sharp stab cuts through me at their earnest faces and matching smiles. I have no choice but to give in.
At home, we build a blanket fort in the living room and Steve makes chili, filling the house with the aromas of browning meat, peppers, and spices. Outside though, rain clouds blow in from the west and they get darker and darker, spilling over the mountains and spreading over us in a thick blanket. Rain follows, and I open all the windows to let in the fresh air and the clean smell. We eat dinner in the living room, spread over the furniture and in the fort with bowls resting in our laps and thick slabs of accompanying cornbread perched on flat surfaces nearby. We cycle through more Pixar movies, James and Owen camp in the blanket fort and I lay out on the sofa, a warm feeling of security falling over me. Steve dozes in the chair beside the sofa, his head tilted back and his mouth open slightly, tiny snores coming from him every so often.
I don't know I've fallen asleep until arms are snaking beneath me and lifting me from the couch, bringing me into the safe place I'd sought refuge in years before. I catch a glimpse of Steve, totally passed on in the extended recliner, a blanket covering him now, and I smile and press my face against the soft t-shirt and wrap my arms around James' neck.
"Bed time," he whispers into my ear, his hot breath ghosting over my skin and making me shiver.
"Owen," I breathe out, barely able to keep my eyes open while he carries me up the stairs.
"Already there," he says, and when we pass by our son's room he turns me to see through the open door to the bed where Owen is curled up and fast asleep.
"Thank you," I murmur.
"Of course," he says with a tiny smile against my temple. "He's mine, too."
Yes, of course, I think and when he sets me down in bed I let him reach under my shirt and unhook my bra, tossing it aside and then helping me out of my pants before he crawls in beside me while I draw the covers of myself. Tonight he draws me in against his chest again, wrapping me in his warmth and safety while the rain drums on outside the window filling the room with steady noise and lulling us into sleep. It's the only thing that drowns out the cycle of questions that have begun to scroll through my brain, all concerning the issue that Steve brought up to me that morning. In the end, it's the only one that needs answering.
What are we going to do now?