Page 28 of Anything But Lonely

My gaze catches on the tattoos that vanish beneath her clothes, curiosity tugging at me despite myself. I can't help but wonder where they continue.

Her stomach? Her thighs? Her hips? Her⁠—

"You have tattoos like Daddy," Crew says, snapping me out of the thought so abruptly it feels like a record scratching. Heat blooms up my neck until it feels like my ears are on fire.

Emerson looks down at herself, as if Crew’s observation is news to her.

“It looks that way,” she says before looking up, her smile so soft and so genuine as she looks at my son. It physically hurts me. Like a crack in my chest. But in a way I’ll find myself aching for once I recover. “I’m Emerson. What’s your name?” she asks him, and I’m thankful all her attention is on him, my eyes volleying between the two of them like I’m just a fly on the wall.

“Crew,” he says shyly, his gaze down at the floor at her feet, like her long white socks are easier to look at than directly at her.

“Well, Crew,” she says, putting her hands on her hips as she walks a little closer to his chair. “What are you making there?” She points to the toaster.

“Waffies,” he answers, his voice still quiet, but she’s beginning to pique his interest.

She gasps dramatically, holding a hand to her chest. “Crew,” she exclaims, “don’t tell me you know how to make waffles in the toaster. I’ve been wanting to learn for years!”

I roll my lips together to hold back the smile threatening my lips.

She puts on a good show, and even after just meeting Crew, she knows exactly how to get through to him. I mentioned to her last night that he’s a good helper, and she must have remembered.

“I can teach you!” Crew says, raising his hand to the air as he grins ear to ear.

“Would you?” she pleads, laying it on thick. “I bet you are such a great teacher.”

Crew nods his head so fast as he settles onto his knees, turning to me. “Daddy, will you take out the hot ones?” he asks. “I need to show Emsen how to do the cold ones.” He can’t quite get all the syllables in Emerson’s name, so it comes out more like “Ems.”

I hear Emerson suck in a sharp breath. It’s barely audible, so much so that Crew doesn’t even notice, but it has me turning to look at her. Her eyes are wide as she looks at Crew before she schools her features. She goes from taken aback to indifferent in less than a second, so quickly that I find myself convincing myself I imagined it.

“Daddy,” Crew says, growing impatient.

“Sorry, buddy,” I say, popping the toasted waffles out, reminding Crew to be careful as he shows Emerson how to carefully drop the frozen waffles into the toaster slots. She nods along as he tries to put his action into words, and I watch as Crew becomes more and more comfortable with her.

“Is that a cat?” Crew asks Emerson, seemingly out of nowhere. Her hands are pressed on the counter next to Crew. I look over at them to see him pointing to a tattoo on the inside of her upper arm.

Sure enough, there’s an American Traditional–style tattoo of a black cat on the inside of her bicep, almost hidden among all her other tattoos—hiding in plain sight. Watchful, contained, like it’s already decided how much of itself a room is allowed to have, slipping in and out before you can get too attached, reappearing only when you’re about to go looking for it.

And a part of me wonders how fitting that tattoo is for her.

“It is,” she answers, her hand instinctively going to the tattoo, sliding a hand over the ink. “My tattoo artist named her Shadow.”

“I have a cat,” Crew says before climbing out of the chair and running to the couch where we left the cat carrier last night during our bedtime escapades, Emerson following a few steps behind him. “Her name is Pepper. After my real cat,” he explains, making sure to emphasize that he has an actual cat in addition to his stuffed animal. “But Mommy said we couldn’t bring her to sing with Daddy.”

“Your mommy is right. Pepper probably loves being home.” Emerson crouches until she's eye level with him. “But I bet she misses you.”

Crew nods, hugging the stuffed cat tighter against his chest. “You're like Pepper.”

Emerson's lips part, her head tilting to the side.

She looks at me, and judging by the crease between her brows, she's just as confused as I am.

Like Pepper?

My son’s cat spends most of her day pretending she doesn't need anyone until it's exactly the moment she decides she does. She disappears for hours, then somehow always knows where Crew is, curling up beside him without making a sound. She's patient. Watchful. Quiet in a way that somehow still fills a room.

I glance back at Emerson.

I haven't known her long enough to understand what Crew sees that I don't.