October, The Odd Ones

Two months later, Lola turned one, and our home turned into a swirl of balloons, giggles, and the delicious chaos only family brings. The living room brimmed with warmth, streamers fluttered in soft pastels, and someone had started the playlist I made the night before, full of oldies, lullabies, and songs that reminded me of October. Of us.

Alice wore her chosen pink tutu, spinning like a tiny comet between legs and tables. She insisted on applying her own glittery lip balm, which resulted in sparkles smeared across her cheeks. Jimmy was the quiet hero of the day, helping carry trays, adjusting the camera for group photos, even holding Lola so October could have a minute to eat. He was growing up in all the best ways.

 August brought homemade cupcakes that looked so good, I briefly wondered if he'd traded souls with a Parisian pastry chef. October's cousins had already declared open season on embarrassing stories, and the house buzzed with noise, laughter, and the kind of teasing that should require a waiver.

Her parents arrived with gift bags and proud smiles that said, We like you now, but we remember the past, sir. I was halfway through a chocolate cupcake when Joseph marched over and pulled me into a bear hug that nearly cracked a rib.

Then he leaned in, his voice dropping like he was about to reveal the nuclear codes.

"You've been good to her. I see it. You still screw up, obviously—"

"Obviously," I nodded with appropriate shame and a mouthful of frosting.

"—but you fix it. That counts. Most guys don't even bother."

"Thank you," I said, genuinely touched and slightly sweating.

He pointed a firm finger at my chest. "But don't let it go to your head. You're still on probation."

"Oh, believe me. I know."

Then he clapped my shoulder, firm and fatherly. "Just keep showing up."

I think about that now, as I watch her across the room—THAT necklace with the pendant catching the light just enough to make it shimmer.  She hadn't worn it until tonight. She came down the stairs earlier, a little flushed from getting ready, brushing a curl behind her ear and there it was. Nestled just below her collarbone. I froze. She must've noticed, because she touched it gently and gave me a small, almost shy smile.

So to see her wearing it now, choosing to wear it now, was like breathing in a different kind of air. One I didn't know I'd missed. Something about it sent me right back to the teenage version of myself, the boy who couldn't believe she looked at him the way she did, the boy who counted the seconds until he could hold her again. My hands itched to touch her, to trace the line of her jaw, to kiss her slowly and tell her everything I should have said over the years. Not just with words. With presence. With intention. With love.

I was giddy. Restless in the best way. Like I'd just fallen in love with her for the second, or maybe hundredth time, and this time, I swore I wouldn't waste it.

Keep showing up. That's exactly what I intend to do. Forever.

Later, during the cake moment, I stood behind October, both of us holding Lola, whose fingers immediately plunged into the frosting. Everyone sang. Lola blinked in awe, maybe confused why all these grown-ups were singing at her, but when Alice clapped, she did too, delighted.

There was a pause after the celebration, a lull of goodbye hugs and thank-yous, kids half-asleep in corners or curled against their mothers. Slowly, the house emptied.
Lola had fallen asleep in October's arms, her tiny curls sticking to her forehead with a mixture of sweat and birthday cake. Alice was already out cold in her big-girl bed, hugging her tutu like it was a stuffed animal. Jimmy had disappeared into his room with a quiet, "Happy birthday again, Lola," but not before hugging me goodnight and giving October a sleepy kiss on the cheek. We were alone. Finally.

October shifted Lola into the crib, brushing a soft kiss onto her forehead, and padded barefoot back to the living room. She looked tired but radiant. Like the kind of beautiful that comes from joy, not effort. I was on the couch waiting for her, a small gift box resting on my lap.

"Sit," I said, patting the spot beside me. "You didn't think I forgot, did you?"

She gave me a skeptical smirk. "You've been too busy organizing balloon arches and fighting your daughter for control of the glitter. I figured you'd skip it this year." I handed her the box. "Never."

She opened it slowly, inside was a delicate bracelet with three small stars, one for each of our children. Each star bore an engraved initial: J, A, L. Her lips parted, eyes going soft. "For every night you woke up to feed them. Every morning you kissed a scraped knee. For being their safe place," I said. "and mine." 

She was looking at the bracelet with a sweet smile.

"Did you know that in Hindi, 'Jal' means water?" I added gently., "It's the beginning of the bracelet, and I think that's fitting. Water is life. It adapts. It carves through stone if you give it time. That's what we've done, you and me. That's what love is, I think...carving through grief, joy, silence, chaos, and still flowing forward."

She blinked slowly, eyes shimmering, and I reached forward to fasten the bracelet around her wrist. For a moment, she said nothing, just leaned in, gently resting her forehead against mine. Her voice, when it came, was a breath more than a whisper.

"It's beautiful... really."

"Thank you love," I said, pulling her into my lap. Then, almost shyly, she reached behind a pillow and pulled out a small, rectangular box wrapped in navy paper.

"This is for you," she said, a small smile playing at her lips. "I know you're usually the one who surprises me on the kids' birthdays, but I'm learning your love language... remember?"

Inside the box was a pen — sleek, elegant, weighty in my hand. I turned it slowly, and there, engraved along the barrel in delicate lettering, were the words:

"For the man who rewrote everything. Let's begin again, without erasing the past."

My throat tightened.

"October..." I said softly, the rest of the words caught somewhere between my ribs and my heart.

She cupped my cheek. "You always write letters. Notes. Words I never got from anyone else, not like that. I wanted you to have something to write with because it's time to begin again. No more erasing the past. Just... carrying it differently.

My throat tightened. "I don't know what I ever did to deserve your grace."

"You showed up," she said softly. "You learned. You apologized and didn't stop there. That's everything."

We sat like that for a while, her fingers idly playing with the collar of my shirt, my arm wrapped around her waist, our foreheads resting together in the warm hush of a home that felt whole again. I kissed her slowly, like I was learning her all over, even though I'd never really forgotten.

After a beat, I reached into my pocket and pulled out a folded page. "You remember that night," I said softly, "when we joked about needing commandments to get this right?"

She let out a quiet laugh, eyes narrowing in amused suspicion. "You didn't."

"I did," I said, handing it to her. "Not rules. Just reminders. My ten commandments of loving you right."

She unfolded the paper, and as her eyes moved down the list, her expression shifted, smile softening, eyes shining. She read them aloud, one by one, her voice tender, her breath catching just slightly on the last.

I will always choose us first.

I will speak love, not just feel it.

I will never stop showing up, especially on the hard days.

I will listen without defensiveness.

I will not mistake your strength for not needing care.

I will nurture what we build, every day.

I will honor your body and your mind.

I will never compete with your dreams, only protect them.

I will celebrate your joy like it's mine.

I will never take your love for granted—not one hour, not one breath.

When she looked up at me, her eyes were brimming with tears, those silent, heavy ones that don't fall right away but blur everything, like light behind water. Her lips parted slightly, and for a second she didn't speak. She just looked at me like I was something she hadn't quite believed in until now. I reached for her hand and said it slowly, like a promise carved into stone.

"I love you October and I will love you in all the ways time cannot touch. With hands that never tire of reaching, with eyes that never stop seeing you. As deeply as I do now, and deeper still as the years unfold."

Her breath caught, just a little.

Then, without a word, she leaned forward and kissed me—soft, slow, and sure. Like she was anchoring us in this moment, in the life we had remade. Her hand found the folded pape and tucked it into her bra. "Close to my heart," she whispered, then grinned. "And safe from toddlers."

We laughed, and in that quiet room, with party crumbs still on the table and Lola's frosting handprint on my shirt, I knew that this was the only kind of success I'd ever need.

****

Fridays.

That became our promise, no matter what the week threw at us, we'd make time. Just us. A standing date, every Friday. It started as a way to celebrate making it through hell together but somewhere along the line, it became sacred. Our reset button. Our quiet vow.

It all started one friday lunch at my job. She had barely arrived when I saw that electric look in her eyes. The kind she got when something was already blooming in her head before the words caught up.

"I found one," she said, breathless with excitement. "Two, actually. They're small, but the light is perfect and the lease terms are clean. Nothing sketchy. I called the agent already."

I blinked. "Found what?"

"A space," she said, stepping closer. "For the shop. For my shop."

It hit me all at once, "You're opening the perfume shop?" I asked.

"Well... starting the process," she said with a grin that didn't let up. "I'm not launching tomorrow, but yes. I'm doing it. I spoke with Lina, the cosmetic chemist I met through the course forum, and she said her lab can handle small-batch safety testing. She's willing to consult until I get my diploma."

She sank into the armchair opposite me and pulled out her notes, already in motion. Her hands moved fast, flipping through sketches and ingredient lists, as her mind leapt two steps ahead. "I'll still finish the certification, of course I will, but legally, I can start retailing as long as I'm working with a licensed partner. I already run my own IFRA checks, and my labeling is compliant."

"I'll use the money you gave me to start," she said, her voice steady but lit with quiet resolve. "And yes, of course I'll finish my studies, getting that diploma matters to me. I want that closure. I want to earn it."

She paused, then looked up with something fierce and calm in her eyes.

"But I'm not going to wait for a piece of paper to tell me I'm allowed to begin. I've spent so long feeling like I wasn't quite there yet. Like everything had to be paused until I was officially enough. But I'm ready now. I can feel it in my bones.

I gently cupped her face. Her skin was warm under my palm, her eyes shining with something unshakable.

"I'm so proud of you, October," I said. "So damn proud. Watching you build this from scratch, watching you fight for it, it's incredible."

She smiled, eyes glistening.

"So," I said, brushing my thumb against her cheek. "Let's celebrate."

"Where? How?" she asked, half-laughing.

"Leave it to me," I said. "I've got an idea."

That night, I made a reservation at the rooftop place she used to love, the one she hadn't stepped foot in since the kids were small. She wore a pink dress that floated around her knees and looked at me across the table like she didn't know whether to trust me or cry. She didn't cry. Not that night. She laughed. God, she laughed.

After that, it became a rhythm. Something sacred.

One Friday, I blindfolded her and drove us to a small ceramics studio downtown. We sat side by side, our hands covered in cold clay, trying to mold something beautiful and failing completely. She made a lopsided bowl. I made something unidentifiable. We laughed so hard the instructor told us we were disrupting the class. When we left, I carried our "art" like it was precious cargo and told her we'd serve popcorn in it someday.

Another Friday, I packed a basket with her favorite cheeses, fresh strawberries, and a bottle of wine that had dust on it from the back of the cabinet. We drove out to the olive fields, spread a blanket under the trees, and let the sun find us. We didn't talk much that day. We didn't need to.

Some Fridays were small, sushi takeout on the couch while a documentary played in the background. Her feet on my lap, my thumb brushing circles over her ankle. Some were indulgent: a night at the planetarium where she cried softly under a sky made of stars and projection lights after I whispered: "We made it, love. We're still here." She didn't say anything. Just pulled my face toward hers and kissed me like gratitude, like forgiveness, like time rewound.

Another Friday, I took her to a quiet bookstore tucked between a florist and a laundromat. We spent an hour picking books for each other. She gave me a novel about scent and memory. I gave her one about a woman who left everything behind to chase her own name. We read them under a tree in the park, trading pages like secrets.

There was a kind of magic in the ritual.

The weekends though? They were for them. For family time. They were our slow moments, blankets on the lawn, Lola dozing on my chest, Alice building towers out of blocks or grass, Jimmy sketching something in his notebook with earbuds in, doing homework, or just going out and planning dates with his girlfriend, yes girlfriend, and just like that, we were still learning, still healing, but more than anything, we were building. A life that was ours. One we weren't just holding onto anymore, but shaping with our own hands. Steady. Sacred. Moving forward. Together.

One weekend, a few weeks before the official opening, we all went to October's new shop. The space still smelled faintly of fresh paint and sawdust, with boxes stacked in corners and shelves waiting to be filled. It didn't matter; it already felt like hers. Like home.

We spent most of the afternoon helping. Alice and Jimmy labeled jars and arranged baskets while Lola napped in her stroller. October moved through the space with a kind of quiet joy, asking us about display ideas, scent pairings, even music for the soft background playlist. She let us in, completely into the making of something she'd dreamed about for years.

Around lunchtime, we spread a picnic blanket right in the middle of the floor. A mess of sandwiches, juice boxes, coffee in mismatched mugs, and crumpled napkins. It wasn't glamorous, but it was perfect.

Later, after we finished sorting the last of the inventory and vacuuming up glitter (Alice's contribution), October and the kids headed to the car while I stayed back to lock up.

I turned off the lights, did one final check, and stepped outside, pulling the door shut behind me.

That's when I saw him. Leo.

He stood across the street, half in shadow, wearing the same navy windbreaker I remembered from years ago. Leo, the janitor from my father's company. The man who used to whistle jazz while he mopped the marble floors. The one who always kept mints in his pocket for kids who looked nervous before big boardroom meetings. I hadn't seen him since the fallout.

"Thomas," he said, voice warm, almost amused.

"Leo?" I blinked, stunned. "God—it's been months. How have you been?"

He shrugged. "Still vertical. Still sweeping up messes, just not the ones in your father's building."

I stepped forward, hands shoved into my coat pockets. "I'm sorry I never came back. Not once."

Leo waved a hand. "Don't worry about that. It's getting better now. Took time, but the poison left with the people who brewed it."

I nodded, unsure of what to say. The silence stretched for a beat before he tilted his head and gave me a once-over.

"You look happy," he said simply.

"I am," I said, and meant it. "It was bad for a while. But we're getting there. Slowly."

He smiled, a little crooked. "I'm glad. You were always a good kid, Thomas. Just got swept away for a while."

He turned like he was about to walk off, then paused and glanced back over his shoulder.

"Maybe," he added casually, "you just needed a reminder. Or a text from an unknown number... something to make you see the truth with your own eyes before it was too late."

He winked.

and just like that, he disappeared into the fading light of the street, his footsteps soft, his figure swallowed by distance. I stood there, stunned. Oh my God. It was him. My heart kicked against my ribs. Grateful. Shaken. Completely undone.

"Thomas?"

October's voice drifted from the car, gentle and grounding. "You okay?"

I turned to look at her, her face in the glow of the dashboard light, our kids in the back, the warmth of everything we'd built waiting for me.

I exhaled.

"Perfect," I said, and it really was.