Any residual stress from work and life seem to disappear as I watch him work.
My husband, the journalist.
If I didn’t interrupt him, he’d work well into the night. He’s always been like that, chasing words when they seem to flow, no matter the time or the day. He’s missed doctor’s appointments and dinners because he’s so caught up in his work. I have to remind him to eat if he’s really focused. More often than not, I just bring food to him at his desk. When I do, he murmurs a thanks, sometimes not even bothering to glance up at me before I leave the room.
It’s not always like that, though. Only when he’s really in the zone.
“I see you standing over there,” he says suddenly.
I grin.
“I thought I was being sneaky.”
“Yeah, well Stanley’s breathing ruined that.”
The dog leaves my side then, trotting over to Aiden and rising up onto his hind legs so he can prop his front paws on Aiden’s thigh. Aiden rubs his head and glances over at me.
His gaze drags down me from head to toe, then back again. Our eyes lock and he tips his head to the side.
“Beautiful.”
I half-smile, not quite believing him. It’s been a long day at the office, followed by a long dinner. I could use a bath and some sleep.
“C’mere,” he says, waving me over.
I push off the doorjamb and curve around his desk, walking up to him. He reaches out for my waist and tugs me down onto his lap. Stanley barks and jumps, feeling left out.
“How was your day?” Aiden asks, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear gently.
“Busy.”
He hums. “Good busy?”
I smile and nod.
His face is only illuminated by the soft glow of the computer screen. He has a five o’clock shadow and tired eyes. He probably hasn’t moved from this spot all day.
“How’s the article coming along?”
“I had to completely restart it this morning. I’d somehow lost my thread.”
“And now?” I ask, flattening my hand against his chest, right above his heart so I can feel its rhythm.
“It’s better. I think. I won’t know until I read back through it in the morning. It could still be total gibberish.”
I laugh because I know it’s not. Aiden is ridiculously good at what he does. He still works for the Times. After his impromptu move back to Texas, his editor called and they struck a deal. Aiden could continue to work for them on a freelance basis. He’d take a partial pay cut in exchange for less travel demands. It’s worked out well for us. With our combined salaries, we could afford to buy and fix up an older house east of I-35. It needed a lot of love. I cringe thinking about the state the place was in when we first bought it.
We took our time renovating it, learning to do most of it ourselves as we went along. We ripped out the horrible orange shag carpet and tore away the maroon wallpaper that seemed to dominate every room in the house. We updated the cabinets in the kitchen and bought new appliances. And sure, it could still use some updates. The original hardwood floors creak. The clawfoot tub in the master bathroom leaks on occasion. The closet space isn’t anything to write home about, and every so often the front door shifts and decides it doesn’t want to close properly.
But we’ve lived here for three years now. This is our home, the place where we adjusted to life as newlyweds, the place where we fell deeper in love, and maybe the place we’ll bring children home to one day. Either that or we’ll get a brother for Stanley. Whatever life brings, we’ll face it together.
“Are you going to keep working?” I ask.
He nods. “Just for a little while.”
I understand. Deadlines are deadlines.
I try to stand up, to let him get back to it, but he keeps me positioned on his lap.
I laugh and tell him to let me up.
“No, it’s fine. I can still write,” he says, wrapping his arms around my waist so he can reach his keyboard. He starts typing, and I laugh harder.
“Aiden.”
“Shhh. I’m working.”
Again, I try to wiggle free of his hold, and his arms clamp around me once again.
“You’ve been gone all day,” he says, sounding wounded. “Just stay for another second.”
I stop fighting him and sigh in resignation. He’s not going to let me up and I’m too tired to keep attempting it, so I settle against him, getting comfortable before I drop my head onto his shoulder. I inhale his scent and it calms me. He starts typing again, and for a few moments, I watch his fingers as they move over the keyboard, amazed at the words that seem to flow out of him so easily. Doesn’t he need to stop and think about what he’s going to say? How does his brain work that fast?