Paxton’s expression from one photo to the next was incomparable. He was in love with the blonde and the newborn in Rowan’s book. He was in love with Rowan and Ophelia in her book. Not me. The next few pages were much the same…up until about six months old. Rowan’s baby book abruptly changed stories. The photos went from happy photos of a beautiful family to photos of me. The new mommy.
Unlike the photos before where Paxton had his arm around the girl in every picture, if his lips weren’t on Rowan, they were on her. Rowan wasn’t mine. Rowan was Paxton’s and hers. Whoever her was. I hesitated on asking Rowan, unsure of Paxton’s reaction to that. I refrained, deciding to ask him later instead. I was sure the girls had been through enough. Their mommy had up and left them in the middle of a storm and didn’t come back for two weeks.
Storm?
Instead of investigating, I looked at the photos. Nothing. I didn’t remember any of it. Not their first birthday parties, the people there, their first steps, their dance recitals, first haircuts, nothing. I didn’t remember any of it. We did a lot of family things, but they weren’t really family things. There was Paxton and the girls, and me and the girls. None of the photos were of the four of us—except those where the girls were between us. None of them were like the blonde. No physical contact between us whatsoever. No touching, hugs, or kisses.
I didn’t understand it at all. The man couldn’t walk by me without kissing, or touching me, but not in photos. No proof of that claim whatsoever.
I needed answers, regardless of setting Paxton off. There were some things he had to tell me. Like this. I couldn’t believe he hadn’t told me that Rowan belonged to another woman. I would have never guessed that. Not for one second. The instinct to protect her and love her was as strong as it was for Ophelia. I didn’t get it. It left me feeling sad, but I wasn’t sure why.
I lied to the girls each time they asked me if I remembered something. Like when Paxton taught them how to ride two-wheeled bikes in the street right out front. I assumed since I wasn’t in any of the pictures, I was the one taking them. There were a lot of those, photos of everything from swimming in the ocean to tea parties. Father-daughter banquets. Sports. Day camps. Park outings. Disney World. These girls had seen more in five years than most kids did in a lifetime. We were busy.
I couldn’t get away from either of them for the rest of the night. If I went to the bathroom, they waited outside the door. If I hobbled to the kitchen for a drink, they went with me. Even when it came time for bed. They begged to sleep with me. Of course, Paxton wouldn’t let them. They agreed when he explained that they might bump my bruises and hurt me. They didn’t want that.
I kissed them both goodnight, leaning down from my crutches, wanting more. I wanted to lay down with them, read them a story, and tell them I loved them. Because of Paxton’s intimidating stares, I didn’t allow my voice to sound cute or in the baby talk I longed to use.
Paxton followed me into the hall, telling both girls he would be right back for a story. I wanted to sit and listen, too, just be with them, but again, I didn’t speak up. I was in no shape to pick a fight. Hands down, I would lose. There wasn’t really much I could do, anyway. I was still trying to decipher what the hell kind of marriage I had.
“Don’t take your clothes off. I want to do it,” he whispered, kissing my neck just below my ear.
“And what if I don’t want you to?”
“Doesn’t matter. Go to your room.” His tongue darted into my mouth that time and I thought I might gag.
Two giggling girls cackled through the hall, hands covering shy mouths with hunkered shoulders.
Aahh! In spite of that gross kiss I’d just endured, the girls were too darn cute. I laughed a little, too, but only for a second.
Rowan broke the pleasantry with her remark. “Daddy loves Mommy.”
Ophelia followed her sister and chimed in, too. “K-S-N-G,” she sang while trying to spell out kissing. She missed a few letters. Paxton let me go and went after them, sending them both into a screaming frenzy. I smiled and continued on my way. At least he was good to them. That meant something. I didn’t know what, but something.
I was tired, ready to lay down and rest, and I still hadn’t had the chance to explore all of my surroundings. I hadn’t snooped through the house at all. I knew both girls’ rooms were dressed in little-girl things. Neat and clean. I loved the openness of the living and dining room, and that kitchen. Oh, my God. It was a chef’s dream—if you liked that sort of thing. I had a feeling I wasn’t much of cook. Besides the bathroom and my room, I hadn’t seen anything else. I didn’t care to that night. My nerves were too wired. I was exhausted, yet anxious. Anxious for my bath.
Chapter Four