Page 25 of Peaches & Pistols

This child has always been an early riser, much to my chagrin. I haven’t slept past 6:00 a.m. in over seven years. Not since before I got pregnant. But my exhaustion runs far deeper than early mornings with my little ball of energy.

I’d never given any thought to being a mother. My own parents were neglectful, not giving me the best example of how to have a happy family. I was also barely eighteen when I married Carter, having a baby was the last thing on my mind. At the time, all I knew was that I felt loved and cared for, and that I’d have stability for the first time in my life.

I was naïve to believe Carter when he told me he’d pull out. He told me a husband shouldn’t need to use a condom with his wife, and he forbade me from getting birth control.

My pregnancy sealed my fate, tethering me to him more eternally than our vows and marriage license. I went from being barely older than a child, to having a child within a year.

I shook off the unwanted feelings of grief and dressed quickly in yesterday’s jean shorts and a baggy T-shirt.

I followed the girls’ voices to the eat-in kitchen where they already had toys scattered all over the table. Shouts for cereal, toast, strawberries, and yogurt filled the apartment as I groggily gathered the ingredients for breakfast.

I was reaching for a mug when I spotted the black ink indented into the scrap paper. I’ve been staring at it since.

“Mama, where’s my breakfast?” Everly asks, not rudely, but not politely either.

“Gettin’ it together right now, baby.” Knowing her “order” by heart, I dollop vanilla yogurt into a bowl, slice a few strawberries, fanning them out like flower petals, and sprinkle cheerios in the middle, completing the masterpiece.

I slide the bowl in front of her to stave off a mutiny.

“Can I have that too?” Harper asks excitedly, admiring Everly’s already ruined flower. “But can I still have my cinnamon toast, please?”

I should tell Greyson how polite his daughter is, but that would require me to speak to him, and I don’t think I want to do much more of that.

Every time I talk to him, I trauma dump on him, cry, or overall make a fool of myself. Perhaps he’s onto something leaving me notes…

Once Harper’s digging in to her breakfast, I grab a mug and make my morning tea. Instead of sitting with the girls, I lean against the counter, sipping my tea and obsessively re-reading Greyson’s note.

I’ll use his card to buy whatever Harper needs for the start of school and use my emergency cash for Everly. I’m uncomfortable accepting so many generosities from Greyson. Nothing is free in this world. Everything comes with strings attached.

“When you little ladies are finished eating, why don’t you get dressed and we go to the playground before it gets too hot? Once the shops open, we’re going back-to-school shopping.”

Yips and screeches of excitement make my ears ring, but in the happiest of ways. They scamper off to get dressed while I clean the kitchen. I tuck Greyson’s credit card and the school-supply list into my shorts pocket.

There’s no other logical reason why his handwritten note is tucked safely in my pocket too, but I pat it through the denim all the same.

Have some business to take care of this evening, don’t wait for me for dinner.

Another note. He bought me a fancy new smartphone so we could text, but he’s leaving me notes instead of having me using the damn thing.

Harper isn’t perturbed when her dad doesn’t join us for dinner. Nor is she bothered when I put her to bed.

I’m sprawled out on the plush sectional, savoring the utter stillness and silence. Being a mom is the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and as it turns out, caring for a second child doubled if not tripled the difficulty.

You’d think it’d be just as easy to make lunch for two kids than one, or get two kids ready for an outing, but no. It’s insanity. When one goes right, the other goes left. It’s like herding cats.

The last couple of days have been so peaceful with happy children, giggles and hugs abound. Today was the first time I’ve seen them disenchanted with each other.

Neither of them is used to spending entire days and nights with another child. Merging two only-children will be harder than I expected. But I survived my first official day as a nanny, and I’ve never been happier to be off my feet.

Greyson’s boots echo on the stairs before the door unlocks and I jolt up to a sitting position.

“Oh, hey. Didn’t think you’d still be up,” he says softly, cognizant of the sleeping babes down the hall.

I blame my exhaustion for why I’m entranced by him toeing off his cowboy boots and lining them up neatly by the front door. He unbuttons his shirt and drapes it over the back of the sectional, leaving him in a white, cotton T-shirt that showcases his built frame.

Greyson carries his mass differently. Carter’s a swimmer and has the physique to prove it. There’s no denying my husband is an attractive man. A monster hidden behind a beautiful mask.

Greyson is solid. That’s the word that comes to mind every time I make this silly mental comparison. He’s broad through the shoulders, with a strong frame built from work, not a gym. He has the physique of a man who can throw a hay bale and never says no to dessert.