As of today, Ian and I have officially been in Fort Bragg for one year. And our lives are so completely different than they were before. My boy has a home and a brother. He even has a dad. I still have my moments of doubt, of this sinking fear that all of this will end, but then Jim reminds me of who he is. Not just with the promises he makes, but the things he does. The reminder is there, in every single touch and every sly smile he gives me. It's in the lingering looks, like he wants to tell me something but not quite ready to just yet.
I gave up thinking those looks meant that he wanted to make this thing between us legal months ago. The one time I asked him it was way too early in our relationship. Ryan had just called me "Mom" for the first time, so I was riding that high, and it just came out. It was right after Thanksgiving, and I was so grateful for everything I now have and also so incredible guilty over almost forgetting about Alexandra and Michael. It was just this split second, where I was basting the turkey and I thought, I have everything I ever wanted. It was a sharp, painful reminder of what I don't have. My twins. My babies aren't here, so how could I, even for a fucking second, think I have everything? I just stopped what I was doing, left the room, and curled into a ball on our bed, drowning in my own tears. Jim came in and tried to make it better, but he didn't know how and soon came to realize he couldn't. It was a slow realization for him--deep in his heart, he still thinks he can get my babies back. They're not even babies anymore. This past September, they turned three. I wonder about their hair color and their eyes. I wonder how their personalities have developed, and selfishly, I pray to nothing in particular that they remember me. That somehow, those first few weeks with them meant enough that they'd recognize me somehow if they saw me. And it was too much, far too overwhelming. I couldn't handle it and was just looking for something to make me feel better. So when I was able to speak, I just blurted it out. "Do you even want to marry me?" All he said was, "Can't," and then crawled out of bed and disappeared until dinner time when there were too many people around to talk about it. He hasn't brought it up since and neither have I. It was greedy of me to even suggest it. He's already given us so much.
The back door creaks open behind me, followed by heavy boots against the laminate flooring. One deep breath after another and I'm halfway to looking like a normal person. I don't want Jim seeing me like this. We're doing good. There's no reason to bring us down with my baggage.
"What's wrong, momma?" His voice comes from a few feet behind me. He hasn't even seen my face yet, and he already knows. He has this uncanny sense about him. He always knows, and I always think I can fool him. Instead of saying a word, I just point in the direction of the boys' bedroom. Crappy mom point two--throwing the kids under the bus to save myself.
"What did they do?" Each word he speaks is punctuated with his annoyance, but he doesn't stomp toward their room like I expect. Instead, he wraps his arms around me from behind and pulls me against his chest. "I'll take care of them in a minute, but first I want to know what's wrong."
"You know what's wrong," I say. My eyes fall closed, and I sink into my man. Jim's chest is firm, even more built than when I met him a year ago. He doesn't drink as much or do as many drugs as he used to. We have an agreement. He can do whatever he wants as long as he can keep his shit together, and if he gets too out of hand, I let him know. So far we've only had two situations arise, and even though he was a real bastard the first time we went through it, he found out the hard way that we wouldn't be having an issue like that again. And we haven't. The second time he partied too hard and I had to rein him in, he didn't give me any shit. Because that's who we are as a couple.
It's a long while before he says anything, because that's how he is. With everybody else, Jim shoots his mouth off before thinking, but with me he's careful and considerate. At least he is now.
"It's okay to be sad, momma." He gives me a squeeze, and his hands travel down from just beneath my breasts to my belly. It'll never be flat after three kids, but it's not as chunky as it used to be. There's still stretch marks and scars from the twins' birth--marks that Jim's studied and traced. With one hand, he palms my belly. I hate the gesture even though I know it's coming from a good place.
"Carried those babies for almost nine full months. You know them in a way nobody else ever will, and the way Mancuso stole them from you? That shit is fucked. I can't make that right the way I want to, but I can promise you that I'm never going to stop trying, and that means if you gotta cry or be sad, you just fucking do it."
Tears fall down my cheeks no matter how hard I squeeze my eyes shut to try to stop them. Jim hates the tears. He doesn't exactly recoil, but I know that he doesn't know what to do with me when I'm crying. The man with all the answers always goes radio silent.
"We good?"
I nod my head in response and take a deep breath as the tears dry up.
"Now, what did the boys do to piss you off?"