When We Touch

My father was leaving my mother.

He was leaving with Jackson’s mother.

She was my mother’s best friend.

I was in the car.

Minnie was in the car.

Jackson’s mother was in the car.

I was the only survivor.

He lies just like his family lies…

Anger rises in my chest. It’s another attempt at keeping Jackson and me apart, and it won’t work. I left my mother’s home furious, but I got the answers I needed. I know the root of her hatred for Jackson and me.

Before today, I’d thought my father and sister died in a car crash, plain and simple. It was terrible, but I’d dealt with the pain and moved on…

Or so I’d thought.

I was in the car.

In the past, when I’d researched “recurring dreams of drowning,” I found explanations ranging from being obsessed with an idea to losing oneself too deeply in a relationship. I assumed it had to do with Jackson leaving, since my dreams stopped when we were together. I never had a single nightmare when I was with him… Jackson was my comfort, my strength. He took away all the fear and pain.

But they’d started before we did…

“Red monster number five!” Coco says, scampering up to me and breaking my thoughts. “Cinco!”

In her hand is a red play-dough sausage she’s shaped into a number five.

“Cinco!” I say, forcing a smile. “It’s Spanish for five.”

“Cinco de Mayo!” she shouts, and I laugh, pushing a curl off her cheek.

“Who says that?”

“Polly’s dad said it when we were playing monsters.”

“Let’s see…” I do a little grunt when I lift her onto the counter. “Who are all the monsters again?”

She rocks back and forth as she rattles them off. “Green monster number one…” She holds up her chubby index finger. “White monster number two…” two fingers. “Purple monster number three…” three fingers. “Yellow monster number four…” four fingers. “And now…”

We say it together. “Red monster number five!”

I add the numbers in Spanish, “Uno, dos, tres, cuatro, cinco!”

“Cinco de Mayo?” The familiar male voice draws our attention to the door, and I look up and smile as Jackson enters the room. “It’s all ready.”

His blue eyes warm when they meet mine, and a rush of comfort soothes my aching chest. Walking quickly to where we stand, he leans forward and kisses me, and I feel the little body in my arms stiffen.

“You paint,” Coco says, pushing on his shoulder.

Jackson leans back and looks down at her, and the warmth that remains in his eyes makes me fall in love with him even more.

“That’s right,” he says. “I paint.”

“You kissed Mommy.” Coco’s dark brow is clenched, and she’s glaring as only a four-year-old can.