Page 62 of Love Wells Kept

I blink between the two of them, watching the argument turn into full-fledged fisticuffs over…an accident?! Odessa’s kicking her foot at him, clearly not in as much pain as she made it seem. And Rhett’s doing his damnedest to avoid the strike of her heel, but he’s smaller and slower, and his sister’s whupping his ass.

“Um, hey…okay, let’s stop.” I half-assedly attempt to prevent any major injuries. I’ve witnessed Kate disciplining them a few times, but I swear it only takes a simple look from her to make them smarten up. I don’t have that look, as far as I know.

Worth a shot anyway.

My eyebrows knit together, and I scowl, struggling to stop the irritation from boiling over. I’ve yelled at them before, and I hate it. I don’t want to do that again. My hands curl into fists, squeezing hard enough my knuckles hurt and my fingernails are cutting into my palm, wounding myself to keep from losing my cool with them. With a deep edge to my tone, I say, “Knock it off.”

Odessa briefly stops to stare at me.

“I’m here for story time,” I announce. “So let’s do that.”

Thank God, that does the trick. Odessa kicks at least a dozen stuffed animals from her bed to make room for me to sit, and before I’m settled into my place between them, the two kids are practically crawling into my lap. Odessa’s bare legs sprawl across my thighs, and Rhett shoves his way under my arm so he’s pressed tight to my side. Damp from the bath, his hair soaks through my thin T-shirt, and he stares up at me with giant brown eyes and a face covered in tiny freckles.

“Okay, what story am I reading?”

“You don’t read us a story. That’s boring—it’s what Mom and Gran do.” Odessa giggles. “You always tell us a real-life funny story or you make one up.”

Anxiousness swells in my chest. Aside from a couple funny moments in the hospital, I have nothing kid-appropriate to share from my stingy memory bank.

Making something up seems equally as impossible, at this moment, since the pressure of their doe-eyed stares has my brain quickly turning into a mashed potato consistency.

“I can’t think of any good stories right now. Maybe we’ll start with reading one tonight and I’ll come up with something better soon.”

I’m scouring the internet for a children’s book they don’t own and trying like hell to memorize it.

“That’s stupid.” Rhett pouts.

Odessa reaches to poke her brother. “Swear jar.”

There’s rapid escalation in his pitch. “I don’t even have any dollar bucks to give you.”

“Then you have to clean Clementine’s litter box for one whole week,” she sasses back.

“Can we stop fighting and read a story?” I’m barely audible over their incoherent squabbling.

I’m not cut out for this. That’s clear as day.

Then I notice Kate in the doorway, my jeans slung low on her hips so that the sharp angle of her hip bone is visible in the minuscule gap between her pants and a fitted blue tank top. Too beautiful for words. She runs a hand through long brown hair, letting it fall tousled down, then ties the thick locks in a bun on top of her head. And when her eyes meet mine, the skin around them crinkles ever so slightly with a delicate smile.

“Odessarhett.” Their names blur together into one stern word that demands their attention. “If you want story time at all, you better knock it off. Dess, why don’t you tell a story? I bet your dad would like that.”

Kate leans against the doorframe, sliding a hand into the back pocket of her jeans in a way that has me wanting to abandon this futile attempt at establishing a relationship with our kids so I can spend time with her.

But for the sake of every one of us, I stay put.

Odessa nods, and both kids practically swarm me again, pressing their small bodies so tightly to mine I can hardly breathe. I don’t know how to sit with them—whether to tuck my arms around their shoulders or if it’s weird to rest my arms on Odessa’s legs laid across my lap. I opt for leaning back on my hands, though it’s not necessarily the most comfortable with the additional weight of Rhett pressing against my side.

Taking her new role very seriously, Odessa leans to grab the water glass from her nightstand and takes a long drink.

Her bedroom is simple and girly, with pink accents throughout and enough princess paraphernalia to supply an entire castle. Her bed has so many stuffed animals we may never find Rhett again if he accidentally falls into the plush pile. And between the brightly colored makeup strewn across a small vanity and the Barbie dolls in the corner, it’s a strange juxtaposition; she’s caught in the middle of being a little kid and a teenager.

I swallow the harsh reality that this girl—my daughter—is halfway to being an adult, and I don’t remember any of those crucial younger years. The therapist said to sit with that emotion, but fuck me, it’s painful.

“Okay, do you want a real story or a made-up one?” Odessa asks me, once she’s certain her voice is the best quality possible.

“A real one, definitely.”

It never gets less strange hearing people tell stories about things I said or did that I don’t remember whatsoever, but maybe this is the kickstart I need. I want to remember all the things that made them love me as much as they do. Odessa and Rhett look at me like I hung the moon, and I want to look at them like they painted the stars.