Page 25 of Faded Rhythm

Sable

A knock raps softly on the guest bedroom door.

“Breakfast,” Julian calls through the wood.

His voice is low and gruff, cutting through the disorienting morning haze in yet another room that isn’t mine.

I glance over at the girls, both still curled up together in the other twin bed, looking like two little sleepy cats.

I rouse them gently, and we go through the familiar morning routine of washing faces, brushing teeth, brushing hair into ponytails, gelling down the flyaways.

It’s normal. It’s comforting, especially after being apart from them.

It’s a familiar rhythm I hear beating in my heart.

I leave them at the kitchen table with plates of waffles and eggs. Kelice drizzles syrup while Rae hums to herself between bites. I kiss both of their heads and turn, quietly moving back down the hallway.

Julian’s door is slightly ajar. I push it open and find him standing at his dresser pulling a fresh shirt out of the drawer. He looks over his shoulder when he hears me, his eyes catching mine with an unreadable expression.

“Hey,” I say softly. “I just wanted to thank you.”

“For what?”

“Breakfast. And bringing us somewhere safe.” I look around. “For sharing your home with us.”

He nods once. Then, just like that, the warmth of the moment dissipates. His back straightens. His shoulders tighten.

“I need to ask you something,” he says. “Do you think Brett would hurt your daughters?”

The question feels like ice melting down my spine.

I cross my arms, hugging myself. “Maybe.”

He can’t hide the disgust on his face.

“Maybe Kelice,” I admit. “He treats her differently.”

He turns to face me head-on. “Different how?”

I shake my head. “Just…different. Less patient. Less loving. Like she did something to offend him or something.” I swallow hard. “It’s very subtle. It didn’t even really hit me until just now. And it’s nothing I could prove in a court of law or anything. You can just—“

“Feel it,” he finishes. “I wish I didn’t know what you mean, but I do.”

He leans against the dresser, folding his arms. “When you’re not the favorite, it’s almost like you become a problem. And you start to believe that shit, too.”

His tone is flat, but I feel the weight behind it. I hear the pain in every syllable.

“What do you mean?” I ask gently, but I’m pretty sure I already know.

“Group homes.” His eyes drop to the floor. “There were favorites even in there. The staff would just have some kids they liked more. No rhyme or reason that I could tell. And trust me, I tried my hardest to figure that shit out.”

He blows out a breath. “The rest of us got the shitty hand-me-downs and half-broken toys. Maybe a birthday cake every few years if anybody remembered. After a while, you learn not to expect it. You learn not to expect anything .”

His voice is so cold, it scares me.

“Foster homes were hit or miss,” he continues. “Mostly miss.”

I move toward him, approaching slowly like you would a wounded animal that might bolt. When I reach him, I wrap my arms around him without hesitation, pressing my face to his chest.

He stiffens at first like he doesn’t know what to do with the contact. But then, after a breath, his arms wrap around me, cautiously pulling me closer.

It takes a minute, but I finally feel his body relax. He exhales, deep and shaky, like he’s been holding that breath for far too long.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m so sorry you went through that.”

I pull back just enough to look up at him. His eyes search mine. For what, I don’t know. But I don’t look away. I wait for him to find what he needs.

“From what I’ve seen, you have a good heart,” I say. “You’re so protective. You’re gentle. You’re safe. It doesn’t sound like anybody taught you that. It’s coming from your heart.”

He shakes his head. “Do you realize who you’re saying that to? You have to, right?”

“I mean…yeah. Of course. I didn’t say you were a saint, Julian. I can only go by what I’ve seen these past few days. And felt.” I put my hand over his heart. “There’s good in here, despite whatever’s in your past.”

He shrugs.

“Look at how you are with my girls.”

“They’re kids. Kids are easy to love and protect. They’re innocent.”

“So were you.”

Something flickers across his face. Pain, I think. And maybe a soft kind of gratitude he doesn’t know how to express. He pulls me closer, and I think maybe that’s what it is.

It breaks my heart, because I don’t think he knows how easy he is to love. Not that I love him, but I’m starting to care about him. I’m becoming attached to him. I don’t like seeing him hurt. And from what I remember, those are all precursors to love.

I don’t know how I got here.

He takes a breath like he’s about to say something, but then we hear the girls’ laughter spilling out of the kitchen and the spell breaks.

“I should check on them,” I mumble, letting my fingers trail over his forearm as I turn away. I don’t miss the way his eyes roam over me, but there’s nothing I can do about it right now. My daughters need me, and I’m not blind to the fact that me being a mother is something he admires about me.

After a dinner of frozen pizzas, the girls sit with Julian at the table making a grocery list. He says he’ll go out alone and be back before we wake up in the morning. While they tend to that, I do the dishes.

Me and the girls do our nighttime routine. As much as I want to spend some time with Julian tonight, I stay with the girls. I missed them so much.

But I miss him, too.

I text him this, because I have no problem opening up and sharing my feelings. Part of me is hoping he’ll mirror that back to me, but I don’t get my hopes up.

Five minutes later, I’m staring at my phone and smiling.

I miss you, too