Chapter Thirty: One Lazy Day...

                                        

                                              

I invited Thomas in. After everything, after the tears, the anger, the ache so sharp it felt physical, I just wanted comfort. Closeness. The sense of him beside me, real and breathing. When we stepped inside, my dad was waiting in the hallway, his brows pinched with worry. He came over, hugging me first, his hands gentle at my back, like he was afraid I might break. Then he looked at Thomas, a flicker of old hurt and new caution crossing his face.
"We're fine," I murmured quickly, my voice still raw. "I just want to feed Lola and sleep."
"You haven't had dinner," he said, soft but insistent in that fatherly way.
"I don't want to," I said, shaking my head.
Thomas nodded, stepping in quietly to fill the spaces I couldn't. "I'll go check on Jimmy and Alice," he said and he did, slipping away into the quiet of the house. I went to my room with Lola, cradling her small, warm weight against my chest. She smelled faintly of milk and baby shampoo, her breath slow and even. I rocked her gently, humming under my breath, thanking her silently for being, out of all my children, the easiest baby. My soft little anchor.
After a while, Thomas came back in, his tie loosened, shirt sleeves rolled up. He saw us, and without a word, stepped closer, wrapping his arms around us both. He started swaying gently, the three of us a slow pendulum in the low lamplight. He even tried to sing a low, tuneless murmur that made me chuckle into Lola's hair, because his singing is about as graceful as his stick-figure sketches. But it didn't matter.
Then he leaned closer, voice rough but tender. "Go take a bath," he whispered. "Or a shower. Relax. I've got this. I'll take of everything." I hesitated, then nodded, pressing a kiss to Lola's head before handing her over.
The water was warm, and for a few blessed minutes, the knots in my chest loosened. When I stepped out, wrapped in a robe, he was waiting in the hallway.  His eyes met mine, soft and careful, like he was still afraid of pushing too far, too soon.
"Everyone's having dinner now," he said gently. "Do you want to eat something?"
"No, thank you," I murmured, my voice smaller than I meant it to be.
He nodded, then hesitated, glancing toward the guest room.
"Okay... do you want me to leave?" he asked, even softer this time.
"No," I whispered, surprising even myself with how quickly the word came out. "Stay. But... I'm going to change first." I slipped into soft pajamas, wiped the steam from my face, then let him in.
"Just hold me tonight," I told him, my throat tightening again.
"Anytime, sweetheart," he murmured.
We lay down, the room dim, the air still heavy from the day. He wrapped around me from behind, his chest a warm wall at my back, his breath slow and deliberate. After a while, he  whispered, "I've got you sweetheart. Just relax," and somehow, I did, his breath at my neck, his voice low in English and then softer still in French, words of apology, love, promises I barely remember because I drifted off before they ended.
During the night, I stirred awake more than once when I heard Lola fussing in her crib but each time, Thomas was already there. Quiet, patient, rocking her gently back to sleep, whispering to her in that low, soothing voice that somehow worked better than mine. Even at dawn, when she let out another soft cry, I half-sat up, but he touched my arm and whispered, "Shh... I've got her. Just enjoy your Sunday morning. Sleep in, love."
For once, I let myself do exactly that.
When I finally got up, the house was already humming with soft laughter, clinking pans, and that unmistakable weekend calm. First, I went to check on Lola. Jimmy was sitting cross-legged on the rug, his phone balanced on his knee, carefully holding her against his shoulder like she was the world's tiniest queen.