6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

LAILA

T he house has shifted since last night. The room I fell asleep in last night was downstairs, but this morning it’s upstairs.

I take my time exploring the rooms, soaking in the tiny details. So much of our story plays out on the walls of our home.

Wedding photos on Ever After Farms, where Luke and Ella’s family seems to be very much my family by extension. I was always so jealous of her relationship with them growing up, it gives me an odd sense of relief to know that love bloomed there.

Maternity photos where Holden cradles the swell of my belly, the love for this unborn child so apparent it takes my breath away. Am I as oblivious to the way Holden looks at me as Ella was with Luke? These images suggest yes.

Birth photos lead to newborn canvases, and then to photos of our children. I run my finger over the canvases, absorbing the nuances of these two little humans. The little girl is my clone. There would be no mistaking she’s mine. The boy is Holden’s. I haven’t even met them and I already love them so much.

How could photos of a life that doesn’t exist make such an impact?

When he told me he wanted an actual relationship, not one that only worked for holidays or weekends, I was floored. Not because he wanted it, but because he asked. He’s only ever asked once before.

And when I chose my career—which look where that got me—he understood. Time passed, and here we are. Unsure how to navigate each other because you can’t just turn off feelings for someone, and we want two different things.

Knowing that I’ve only given him a full relationship one week out of the year when this is what we could have had just about knocks the breath out of me. I’ve robbed him of this.

I walk down the stairs, envious of the wood details and the lit garland that wraps all the way down the handrail. Lush and beautiful. And fresh.

As soon as my feet touch the bottom step, two heads pop up from a table in the living room and screams of ‘Mommy’ ensue. It’s chaotic and loud, but the anger inside me shifts from myself to my own mother.

I bury my face against their heads, tears stinging my cheeks as they fight over who can get the closest to me. Bridget and I moved into an apartment not long after we graduated, because we realized the role we played with Charlotte Mitchell. As these high-pitched voices vie for my attention, telling me about their morning so far, I have another realization. My mother robbed me of this .

There’s not one instance I can think of where she cared more about any of us than her image. She framed things so that it looked like she was interested in what was best for her daughters—Ella not included—but it really was about what benefitted her most.

The Laila in this universe healed from the fear she’d do the same with her kids.

“They love you so much,” Holden chuckles, crouching down beside me.

“Well, the feeling is mutual,” I sniffle.

Nevermind the fact that I don’t even know their names or how to be a mom. Just knowing that the potential for this exists for me—if I allow it—is enough. That wound inside me soothes, like aloe vera on a burn.

“I brought you coffee.” He extends the cup to me, and I could kiss him for this act alone. But instead, I let myself really look at him.

The kids scramble off and excited squeals and the tumble of blocks become the soundtrack to this scene.

“You really did choose me,” I whisper.

He presses the coffee cup into my hands and folds himself into a seated position on the hardwood floor beside me.

“You chose me back, honey.”

“But, I was awful to you.” It’s blunt, but it’s true. I don’t even need to see more of what this life has to offer to recognize that. It’s something I’ve forced myself to sit with the last couple of months when I realized how true that was.

“You’re not going to do this today, okay?” He reaches out and tucks a hair behind my ear. “We’re not going to go down the road of me deserving better than you and you doing the whole Peeta deserved better speech.”

“How did you even—” My mouth falls open. That’s exactly what I was thinking.

“I know you. And while this is a hotly debated topic—especially with you,” he grins, “I’d like to think my opinion of the matter is pretty important. Yeah?”

I nod.

“Then hear me when I say this: focusing on how to survive doesn’t make you a bad person, La. You thought you were protecting me by loving me with stipulations.”

I’ve never actually said those words to Holden. But he’s right.

“You’re so wise.”

“I’m just a man who loves his wife.”

I wish I could record those words, so I could play them anytime I wanted to.

“Even with all the flaws and baggage?” A lone tear drops into my coffee.

He shifts so he can use a thumb to wipe away the tear. “I loved you before you knew which baggage to take to the dumb, La. Why wouldn’t I love you now?”

“You did?”

He frowns and tips his head. “You’re so different today. Are you sure you’re okay? We can make it a chill day—stay here and hang out at home?—”

“No. I want to do whatever you have planned. Everything you have planned.”

“You sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,” I reply.

“Then come on Mrs. Porter. Let’s finish breakfast and go get our tree.”