“Why do you say that?”
“He looks at you different, Momma. He wants to kiss you. I can tell.” She giggles, all little girl now. “Momma and Cole sittin’ in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g,” she sings.
“I don’t think Momma and Cole will be kissing any time soon,” I tell her as I pull her pajama top over her head.
“But you want to.”
“No, I don’t.”
She giggles again. “Maybe if you kiss him, you’ll be happy, too.”
“I thought boy kisses were gross,” I say, reminding her of her opinion of the stronger sex thus far in life.
“Not for big girls. For big girls, they’re magic.”
I sweep her up into my arms and she throws her arms around my neck. “The only magical kisses I know of are these.” I rain kisses all over her face and hair until she lets the subject drop.
I hope, unlike me, she’ll just be able to put it from her mind. Put him from her mind.
?????
I envy Emmy’s ability to go straight to sleep. I pray it means that, despite all her worries and questions, her mind is for the most part worry-free. Unlike mine, which is keeping me wide awake. I’m still sitting in the dark, staring at the empty fireplace, covered in a blanket, thinking. That’s why I hear the soft knock. Had I been anywhere other than a few feet from the door, I’d never have heard it.
My stomach clenches and I turn toward the offending sound, debating whether to answer it or pretend I’m already in bed. I tiptoe to the door, pressing my ear to it so that I can hear if my late-night visitor leaves. I hear a subtle scraping sound, as though a rough palm is rubbing the wood between us.
“Eden,” comes the sandpaper voice. I don’t know how he would expect me to hear him. Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he knows he shouldn’t be here and he’s regretting coming.
Or maybe he’s sober tonight. And maybe this is the Cole I thought I knew.
“Please be awake.” There’s a quiet desperation to his plea. It punches through the door and into my chest like a fist. “I need to talk to you.”
I shouldn’t even consider opening the door. I should write him off as a lost cause and move on with my life. Go back to the way I was before I met him. But there’s a part of me that wants him to make this right, wants him to clear things up. Tell me I was wrong. Tell me he was wrong. To promise he’ll never do that again.
Something in me wants that badly. So, so badly.
It’s that part which shushes all the other voices and pushes my hand to reach for the lock.
I crack the door and peek out just enough to see Cole pulling his palm away–the soft rasping I heard. His eyes find mine and, even in the dark, I can see the cornucopia of emotions in them. Right now, they aren’t hooded. Right now, they aren’t hiding his thoughts from me. Right now, they’re open.
He’s open.
And that’s why I let him in.
I step back and he slides past me, not moving beyond the entryway. I close the door, crossing my arms over my chest as we stand watching each other.
“I know it’s late, but I wanted to talk to you. Alone.”
“Well, here I am. Talk,” I say, unable to keep all the bitterness from my tone.
Cole runs his hands through his chin-length hair, pushing dark blond strands away from his face. Thick stubble shadows his cheeks. He looks haggard, unkempt. Like he hasn’t slept since I saw him last. And maybe he hasn’t.
It’s only fair, I think childishly, since I haven’t slept much either.
He drops his hands like he just realized something, the familiar frown finally marring his smooth brow. “It’s cold in here.”
“It’s cold everywhere.”
He turns to look back over his shoulder. “There’s no fire.”
“No.”
I don’t add the Duh that I’m so waspishly thinking. I think the reason I’m inordinately aggravated is that I’m so glad he’s here, so happy that he’s sober and back to the Cole that I was growing so fond of. I shouldn’t feel this way. I should still be mad. But I’m not. Not really. Not nearly as mad as I am relieved that he came back. That he feels enough for me that he would experience regret over what happened.
“May I?” he asks, indicating the empty fireplace.
“I don’t have any wood.”
“I’ll be right back.”
He exits into the cold night and I wish for a second that I’d told him no. Just to keep him from walking out that door again. I’m beginning to hate it when he leaves. Things…this house…life feels better when he’s near.
Which is pure craziness.
Within five minutes, Cole is back, carrying an armful of wood–some big pieces, some little–through my door. “I had some for across the street,” he explains, making his way into the living room. He sets his load in front of the fireplace and deftly builds a fire. It’s lit and already starting to crackle within just a few minutes.