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Chapter Seven

TUCKER

W e sat at opposite ends of the kitchen table, typing out of sync while Chloe napped in the other room. Bryson’s leg bobbed with nervous energy, making the table tremble as he checked his phone, drumming his fingers and grumbling about poor Wi-Fi. My email opened after three tries, and I felt his eye twitch from across the room. It was almost cute, watching him try to hold it all together.

I turned my attention back to my email but before I got too far, Chloe wailed, her cries sounding tinny through the baby monitor.

“I’ll get a bottle ready,” I offered.

Bryson’s focus was glued to the baby monitor. “Are we letting her sleep too long? I feel like we’re letting her sleep too long. “

I headed to the counter. “She’s a baby. She needs lots of sleep.”

“The books all say we need to start sleep training,” he retorted.

I rolled my eyes; thankful that my back was turned to him. Over the last couple of weeks, Bryson had become a walking, talking encyclopedia of child rearing, quoting all the so-called experts and wielding the parenting books he’d ordered like they were the Bible. It was only through supreme willpower that I hadn’t already set fire to the entire stack of them.

Grabbing a clean bottle and the canister of formula, I set to work. Chloe’s voice got louder, impatient with our seemingly laissez-faire approach to infant hunger. “What’s the ETA on that bottle?” Bryson called, stretching his neck like he might just dash down the hallway himself.

“Working on it. I’ve got the bottle in the warmer now, boss!” I answered in a clipped tone. I dumped formula into the bottle and started shaking it, dribbling powder over the counter.

“You’re making a mess is what you’re doing.” He slammed the laptop shut, and it echoed in the small room. “A mess I’ll be stuck cleaning up.”

“So don't clean it. I’ll get it later.” I shrugged, letting a heap of powder hit the floor like a rebellious little snowfall.

His hazel eyes narrowed. “You know I can’t leave things like that.”

We were on familiar ground, and it was somewhere between a minefield and a swamp. The same tired argument popping up with more and more frequency. “Well, I can't help it if I don’t clean everything according to your specifications.”

Bryson’s chair scraped as he stood. “We need to split responsibilities. If you won’t keep things tidy, maybe we need to make a chart. The books all say?—”

“Enough with the books already. I don’t give a fuck what the books say,” I snapped, regretting it the moment it slipped out. We glared at each other in tense silence before another cry broke the awkward staring contest.

“I'll get her,” I muttered, grabbing the bottle out of the warmer and turning on my heel.

I walked down the hall, feeling Bryson’s eyes drilling holes in the back of my head. Chloe’s cries hit a new level of intensity as I opened the nursery door and scooped her from the crib, holding her close while she squirmed, fists flailing in protest. “We’re going to get reported to Baby Protective Services, aren’t we?” I whispered, rocking her gently in my arms.

She gurgled, calming just enough to remind me how much she owned me. Her grip on my finger was stronger than my hold on reality these days. I sat in the rocking chair; her warmth tucked against my chest and eased the bottle to her mouth. “Here you go,” I said, trying to keep the mood light while she guzzled like a frat boy at keg night.

I rocked her slowly, watching her eyes flutter. “You’ve got two new guardians,” I said, whispering like I was telling her a secret. “One who’s pretty much perfect and one who’s—” I chuckled to myself. “Well, you’ll figure it out soon enough.”

I’d traveled halfway around the world and seen just about everything, but nothing prepared me for this tiny human and how she made everything feel terrifying and right at the same time. Watching her drift back to sleep, her grip relaxed, letting my finger slip from her grasp. I laid her in the crib, smoothing the soft hair on her head.

I made my way back to the kitchen, dreading the argument that was surely waiting for me there. But Bryson was seated, tapping his foot and attacking his laptop keys like they’d personally offended him. The powdery mess was gone. He didn’t look up as I came in, so I flopped back into my chair, making more noise than was probably necessary.

I opened my laptop and tried to focus, but I kept stealing glances at him and the tight set of his jaw. I hated the friction between us, but I wasn’t sure what to do about it. We were so different. The only thing I was sure of was that we needed to figure it out quickly because living with this much tension wasn’t good for any of us, especially Chloe.

The mail came, the afternoon dragged, and we settled into that restless period between lunch and dinner. I found Bryson in the living room, holding a fresh diaper in one hand and bracing himself for battle with the other. Chloe squirmed on the couch, cooing innocently. He worked fast, changing her in under thirty-second flat, like he was trying out for some speed diapering competition.

“There. We did it,” he said, fastening the last tab. He picked up Chloe, smiling at her like they shared some kind of secret, then laid her down on the rug.

Her little hands reached for the colorful toys he’d lined up in perfect order around her. A ring stacker, a soft book, some teething rings, all carefully selected and placed within easy crawling distance. He turned his attention to cleaning up the mess, organizing everything neatly in the clear tub labeled diaper supplies and folding the dirty diaper into a neat little package.

I leaned against the doorframe, shaking my head. “You know it’s just going to get messy again in about five minutes, right?”

“It’s called being prepared.” He looked up, meeting my gaze with a hint of challenge.

I tried not to grin, even though we both felt the joke behind my smirk. “Does that count as OCD?”

He hesitated, something almost like amusement in his eyes. “It counts as surviving you.”

Chloe’s giggle broke through, a high-pitched squeal that pulled our attention back to her. She wiggled on her stomach, determinedly ignoring the toys and focusing instead on the one thing she shouldn’t have: a stray sock halfway under the couch.

“I swear that wasn’t mine,” I said, in case Bryson tried to charge me with littering.

Her legs kicked, arms flapping like she might take flight, and then, just as we thought she’d give up, she pulled her knees under her and launched forward with wobbly, awkward grace.

“Oh my God!” I exclaimed, nearly tripping over myself as I ran to the floor. “Did you just see that?”

Bryson froze, his face breaking into the biggest smile I’d ever seen. “She’s crawling!”

I knelt beside him, and we watched in disbelief as she kept going, the world’s cutest little escape artist. “Chloe’s on the move!”

He clapped his hands, the sound of pure joy filling the room. “You did it, baby girl! You did it!” She stopped, turning her head to see what the fuss was about, eyes wide and curious.

“Keep going!” I encouraged, shaking a rattle just out of her reach.

We laughed, cheering her on, our earlier tension completely forgotten in the face of this tiny miracle. Chloe made another lurch forward, landing nose first into the rug, but she pushed up again, determined to get the hang of it.

“This is huge,” he said, his voice full of wonder. He looked at me, his expression softer than it’d been in days.

We sat on the floor, side by side, basking in the glow of this new milestone. “Chloe Bear,” I said, “We need to get you on the go!” I handed Bryson his phone off the coffee table, motioning for him to record.

He held his phone steady, capturing the moment for posterity, but Chloe had already decided to take a break. She rolled to her back, sucking on her hand.

“I think she’s done for now,” he laughed, tucking the phone back into his pocket.

“But not for long.” I knew it wasn’t just about the crawling. “She’s going to be everywhere.”

His eyes sparkled with excitement and, maybe, the faintest trace of panic. “I’ll have to start babyproofing the house.”

“I’ll help.” I reached out, putting my hand on his arm. He nodded, and the simple gesture said more than any words could. Our little cold war was over, at least for the moment.

Chloe watched us, eyes darting from one face to the other. She stuck out her tongue and made a fart noise. The laugh that escaped him made something unfurl inside my chest.

We took turns picking her up and encouraging her to keep moving, our excitement infectious and childlike. It was the kind of spontaneous joy you couldn’t plan for, even if you tried. Bryson seemed lighter, like seeing Chloe crawl had also freed him from some invisible weight. He smiled at me, genuine and full of relief, and I knew we’d be okay. At least until the next mess.

Quietly, I slid the door of the nursery shut and walked downstairs. Bryson sat in the living room, his sleeves rolled up, and the soft glow of a lamp, casting half his face in shadow. I stood in the doorway and watched him for a moment, feeling the day settle on us like a blanket, warm and a little suffocating. The silence pressed down, so I broke it with the pop and hiss of two cold beers, bringing them over and handing one to him.

“Peace offering?” he asked, a cautious smile tugging at his lips.

I dropped onto the couch beside him, my body easing into the cushions. “Maybe.”

We sat in silence for a few beats, both unsure how to start this conversation. He turned the beer in his hands, fingers restless against the cold glass. He stared at it like the words he needed might be written on the label.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally, his voice low, carrying the weight of the last few weeks. “For being so… rigid all the time.”

“I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have snapped at you that way,” I responded honestly.

“I just—” He hesitated, searching for the right way to explain. “I can’t stand mess. Growing up…”

He trailed off, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. I’d never seen him so unsure, so vulnerable. I wanted to fill the quiet with something easy, but I knew better than to break the moment.

“When I was five, I was placed in foster care. My biological mom was an addict. Drugs, alcohol, sex—you name it, and she was addicted to it. She’d go on these benders, throwing parties at our house, loud music at all hours, and a different guy in her bed every night.” The words tumbled out, each one a little more fragile than the last.

“You don’t have to—” I started, but he cut me off, shaking his head.

“I want to,” he insisted. “You should know who you’re dealing with.”

He set the beer on the coffee table, drawing his knees up to his chest like he needed to protect himself from something that might sneak in and make another mess of his life.

“All I remember from that time was chaos. Broken bottles, dirty needles, and trash lying all over the place. It was years before I felt safe enough to walk barefoot. I have no idea what happened to her. One day she left for work and…just never came back. A neighbor heard me crying and called the police. A social worker came and got me, but because there was no other family, I got placed in the system.

I watched his face, seeing all the little cracks beneath his perfect exterior. “I always felt… lost,” he continued. “I didn’t belong in any of the families I lived with. Foster care was unpredictable, and I got shuffled around quite a bit. I learned pretty quickly that controlling my environment was the only way I could cope. Luckily, I was adopted after just a year and I couldn’t have asked for any better parents than the ones I got, but those early years... had left a lasting impression.”

I put my hand on his shoulder, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath the fabric of his shirt. “I’m so sorry you went through all that. You deserved so much better,” I said softly.

He met my eyes, searching for something, but I wasn’t sure what. “I get it though. We all cope with things differently. I lost my parents, too,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “Not in the same way, but still…” I paused, looking for the right words. He didn’t flinch or turn away. He held my gaze like he knew this was harder for me than I’d ever let on.

“My freshman year of college, my mom died of cancer. Six months later, my dad had a heart attack. It made me want to experience everything life has to offer before it’s too late,” I continued, feeling the cracks open up in me, too.

Bryson reached for my hand, a tentative but grounding touch. “But now…”

“Now what?” he urged.

“Now, I wonder if maybe I didn’t miss out on even more by not being here—not spending more time with my brother, not being here every day to get to see Chloe grow.”

“But you can. You have all the time you could possibly want with her now.”

I nodded. “That’s why I decided to cut back on work,” I explained, feeling the urgency to make him understand. “I want to be here. Really be here.”

He squeezed my hand, his eyes wide and a little surprised. “That’s great. But are you sure? What about work?”

I leaned back, letting my head rest on the back of the couch, looking at him sideways. “I have plenty of money from my apps and besides, nothing is as important as being with her. You see how fast she’s growing. She fucking crawled today! I don’t want to miss anything else.”

He smiled, a genuine smile that felt like the sun, breaking through clouds. “We’ll make this work.” The words were so simple, but they settled between us with profound certainty. We’d both been broken in our own ways, but together, with Chloe, we felt whole.

Bryson and I sat on the couch, the air between us more relaxed than it’d been in weeks. The light was soft and forgiving, and I caught him glancing at me like he might have some deep revelation, but instead he only said, “You’re messy.”

I laughed, the day’s tension bleeding out of me. “You love it,” I replied, watching his face.

“I suppose I can learn to tolerate it.” His voice carried a teasing edge, the kind I hadn’t heard in too long.

It felt good to be here, together and at ease, without the weight of earlier hanging over us like a cloud. I stretched my legs out on the coffee table, my feet brushing against his. He didn’t move away, and that was enough to keep me optimistic.

“Chloe really nailed it today, didn’t she?” I said, more statement than question.

“She's a little rock star.” He leaned back, letting himself relax. “Thank you for—” he started, then stopped like he didn’t need to finish.

“For?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“For sticking with me. For putting up with my… quirks.”

“Thanks for always cleaning up my messes,” I retorted, my lips quirking up at the corners.

“Could be worse.” He shrugged, smiling.

We sat together in easy silence, the words resting comfortably between us like they had nowhere better to be. I thought of all the places I’d been, all the amazing things I’d seen and done. They were enough to keep me on the road for years, but not enough to keep me there forever.