Our Finest Hour (The Time Series Book 1)

by Jennifer Millikin

  “I did.” He nods slowly. “But we never made it inside.”

  The air around us changes, igniting with a pulse of energy. It fills me, pushing into my chest and limbs, capturing my rational thoughts and turning them foolish.

  He feels it too. I know it in the way his lips peel apart, how his eyes instantly look deeper, like they’re holding more emotion than they were ten seconds ago.

  “I’m ready to play cards,” Claire yells from somewhere beyond the island.

  I blink and look away, grateful for her interruption.

  “So are we,” Isaac yells into the open space. His voice is ragged.

  We play cards until it’s Claire’s bedtime. She puts up a fuss about taking a bath, insisting I shut the bathroom door so Isaac can’t see the garbage bag I’ve wrapped around her arm to keep her cast from getting wet.

  I’d thought her protests had to do with modesty, but she told me she was embarrassed of the contraption.

  “You know,” I say, carefully leaning her head away from her hurt arm and pouring water over her soapy hair, “Your dad is the person who suggested we use this bag to bathe you. Remember at your first appointment?”

  “Yes.” Her voice is tiny.

  “So why can’t he see you like this?”

  Her little shoulders shrug slowly. When her lower lip trembles, it nearly breaks my heart in two.

  “What is it?” I ask, slicking her clean hair back over her head and squeezing out some of the excess water.

  “Will Daddy leave? Will it just be me and you again? Will we have to go back to Grandpa’s?”

  My forehead creases with my surprise. I wasn’t expecting such loaded questions.

  For a second I contemplate lying, because it’s easiest, but I can’t. I don’t believe in false hope, and I certainly won’t set my daughter up to be disappointed. “I don’t know the future, but I do know your Daddy loves you very much, and he won’t ever be without you again.” She seems satisfied with my answer, and I relax. She’s pouring water from one cup to another when she asks, “Where did your mommy go?”

  My hand, poised in the air to pour another bucket of water over her back, stills. I set the bucket down in the bath water and watch it tip over.

  “I’m not sure, sweetie.” It’s the best I can manage when my brain cells are all falling over one another trying to process her question and the ramifications of answering it.

  “Did she die?”

  I gulp. Why has a seemingly normal bath time turned into a shock-Mommy marathon?

  “Where did you learn about people dying?”

  “Lincoln’s grandma died. He told me at school yesterday.”

  “No, my mom didn’t die.” I pause, thinking. I guess I don’t know that for sure. “She wasn’t able to be a mommy anymore, and she had to leave me and Grandpa.”

  Claire’s eyes are saucers, and I realize what I’ve done. “No, no, no, Claire, don’t worry. That will never happen to me. I’m meant to be your mommy. I’ll always be capable of that job.”

  She nods, her eyes trusting me implicitly, and I think how amazing that would be. To trust someone like that. So childlike and naive. She has never been let down, and I’m dreading the day it happens.

  “Are you ready to get this bag off your arm and let your dad tuck you in?”

  Claire stands, and we work together to get her ready for bed. When we emerge from the bathroom Isaac is already there, waiting against the wall beside her bedroom door. I sit on the end of her bed while Isaac reads to her and situates her arm. We both say good-night and step out of her room, pulling the door shut.

  He looks at me, face serene. “I know it’s only been a month and a half since her break, but it feels like I’ve been waiting a long time for her.”

  I’m not sure what to say, so I smile. As we stand there, the awkwardness creeps back in until I finally think of something to say. “I’m going to bed too. It’s been a busy day.”

  Isaac’s expression goes from serene to sad. He looks like he wants to say something, maybe tell me how lame I am for a twenty-something, but all that comes out is, “OK.”

  Before the confusing energy between us can tidal-wave me to the ground again, I make my escape with a lousy good-night.

  I’m in the safety of my new room when my phone chirps from the dresser.

  Britt: Have a nice night. Hope things are going well for you.

  I’m typing my response when another text comes in.

  Isaac: Thank you for agreeing to move in here. I know it’s not ideal for you, but knowing that tonight I’m going to sleep under the same roof as my daughter means everything to me.

  My fingers move an inch above the keys as I contemplate what to say. After a moment, I settle on a response.

  Me: It’s best for Claire, and she’s what matters.

  I bite my lip and turn, my gaze caught by the gorgeous blue comforter he chose. The energy hits me, and he’s not even here. I’m picturing Isaac in a store, standing in front of all the bedding, trying to find a comforter he hopes I’ll like.

  I feel cared for, and it’s unsettling. I don’t know how to handle the feeling. I want to grab it and push it away, but I also want to curl up with it, right onto the soft blue fabric covering my bed.

  When I go to bed after responding to Britt, I battle warring emotions.

  Isaac is the daylight, a rising sun, shooing away the pestering ghosts. Claire’s questions invite the ghosts to peer over my shoulder and remind me with their wispy presence that they’re still around.

  Oddly, both make me feel the same way.

  Terrified.

  I slept better than I have in months, and I refuse to admit it had anything to do with the comforter I was wrapped in.

  Before I walk out of my room, I listen at the door. I want to know what I’m getting myself into. When a few seconds of sleuthing yields no sound, I venture out.

  And right into Isaac as he’s walking past my room. His chest isn’t a terrible place for my cheek to land. It’s soft. And it smells good. All in all, there are worse places to be.

  “Sorry,” I whisper, pushing away from him.

  “Come here.” He takes my hand, leading me quietly past Claire’s room. He pulls me into the kitchen. “I have something for you.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I settle onto a barstool and lean my elbows on the island. “I hope it’s a pony.”

  Suppressed laughter makes Isaac’s shoulders bob, but he keeps his back turned, preparing the coffee. After a moment I hear the sound of liquid streaming from the complicated looking machine. “Unfortunately the store was fresh out of ponies.” He turns, carrying a mug in his hand. “But, they did have this.” He rounds the island and sets the cup in front of me.

  I lift it, tilting it slightly to read the words.

  I can’t help my laugh. I Mom So Hard the mug announces in big block letters. I laugh again, but I like it. The recognition feels nice.

  Isaac’s at the machine, making a cup for himself. “I thought you might like to have your own coffee cup here.” He comes to sit beside me.

  “Yours doesn’t say anything.” I point to his plain white cup.

  He brings it to his lips, nodding. “Maybe you can help me pick one out. What should mine say?”

  “Baby Daddy?” I hold back my smile and raise my eyebrows. I still don’t love the term, but it’s annoyingly accurate.

  He makes a face. “Try again.”

  “I Fix Broken Bones?”

  “Boring.” He sips again, eyeing me.

  “World’s Greatest Dad?”

  He thinks for a moment. “A little cliché but I’ll take it.”

  “We can go today. Find that new mug of yours. And then you can drink from a mug as cool as mine.” I peer at him over the brim of my cup, and he smiles.

  This thing we’re doing right now… It’s nice. We’re loose, light, and airy, with none of the awkward tension I anticipated. It takes Claire another hour to wake up, and during that time, Isaac a
nd I are crooked grins, friendly talk about work, and comfortable silences.

  I don’t think Isaac’s even trying. He’s only being himself. The man I met five years ago is still in there, bright and sunny, ready to take on the world with his anything-is-possible attitude.

  Correction: the man I met five years ago is here. Right beside me, his elbow bumping mine. Claire came out of her room, and now she looks at home on his lap, tucked into the crook of his arm. And I’m six inches away, my insides swirling, feeling everything but tranquil.

  It won’t always be like this. Soon this will be your normal. This will pass.

  “Dr. Cordova, you have a pharma rep in exam room three.”

  I lean forward in my chair, my interest piqued. “Thanks, Morgan. Do you know if—?”

  The line clicks.

  Never mind.

  It’s probably not her. What reason would she have to show up here?

  I try to come up with answers as I leave my office and walk toward the room, but I have none. It’s definitely not her.

  Whoever it is, this won’t take long. I’m meeting my sister for lunch in twenty minutes, and I can’t be late. Lauren will be late, which means I need to be on time and order for us. I have surgery scheduled for three p.m.

  Before entering the room I throw two quick knocks on the door, then press in.

  I was wrong. It is her.

  “Jenna, hello.”

  She stands across the small space, arms crossed. I’m relieved to feel nothing in my chest when I see her. Not that it surprises me. It’s just good to know there aren’t residual feelings lurking.

  “Isaac,” she nods curtly. “This isn’t a professional visit, in case you’re wondering.”

  “Unless you’re suddenly in the business of selling metal pins, I didn’t think it was.” I tilt my head and wait for her to speak.

  She barks an awkward laugh, fingering her silk collar. The Jenna I know doesn’t fidget. The Jenna I know is never nervous. Then again, I’m beginning to think I never knew her very well.

  Jenna brings her hand down to meet the other, fingers intertwining in front of her navy blue knee-length skirt. “I came here to talk some sense into you.”

  My chin raises a fraction of an inch, muscles tensing. Even though I already know what she’s going to say, and I’m so confident of it that I'd bet my right thumb, I ask “About what?”

  “Your choice to sacrifice your career.”

  Annoyance flares. “Your concern is touching. Now if you’ll excuse me.” I move to leave.

  “Isaac, wait.” Her hand goes out to stop me, although she’s nowhere near touching me. “I’m here to help you see reason. God knows she won’t. She probably has no idea what you’re giving up for her. And her child.”

  My fists ball at my sides. “My child.”

  “Right, yes. Your child.” Jenna’s face screws up as if the words taste bad. “Isaac, I heard about your offer and I want you to think more about it. Saying no to Dr. Redmond is a bad idea. You could go so far with his help. A research position, Isaac. Research. That’s huge.”

  Her words bounce around in my mind. To Jenna, this is the ultimate step in a flourishing career. I can see where she’s coming from.

  “Jenna.” I pause to take in her face. She looks like she always has. I wonder what she’ll do when, inevitably, smile lines appear around her lips. “Sometimes, there are more important things than moving up in your career. And I hope you get to experience them.” I step through the open door and pause in the doorway. “I’ll see you around.”

  There’s no point in sticking around to here any other arguments she has prepared. She lifts her hand for a short wave, her face concerned, and I walk away.

  I’m not worried about my choice. I know my priorities.

  “Hi, sorry I’m late.” Lauren slides into the seat across from me. “Did you order?”

  I nod, checking the time on my watch. “I have a three o’clock surgery.”

  “Sorry, sorry,” she mutters, hooking her purse strap on the back of her chair. She brushes her bangs from her eyes and blinks at me.

  “Stop,” I instruct as her eyes fill. “Nothing’s changed.”

  “It feels different.” She bites her lip, but she can’t completely stop it from trembling.

  “Did we go to see the Redwoods when you were eight? I tripped you, and you fell headfirst into a tree. Is that right?”

  She nods.

  “Did I chase your first date out of the house because he was a douchebag?”

  A small smile moves her lips. “He was not a douchebag.”

  “He was and you’re welcome.” I bow dramatically until she’s done laughing. Straightening, I grow serious. “My point is, everything’s the same. You knowing doesn’t change anything. Family is love.”

  She makes a grunting noise in the back of her throat and rolls her eyes. “Don’t. I already heard those words from Mom. And now I understand why she’s been saying them our whole lives.”

  The server drops off a basket of bread, and I thank him before he walks away. Lauren lays her napkin on her lap and tears a piece of bread in half. She pops it in her mouth and chews like the bite offended her.

  “Give Mom a break.” I take the other half of the bread and drop it on my plate. “I know it’s new to you, but I dealt with it a long time ago.”

  “By going to a bar and making a baby.”

  “Best decision I ever made,” I say around a bite of bread.

  She smiles. “It was, wasn’t it?”

  I nod.

  “How’s it going living with Aubrey and Claire? It’s been what, two weeks?” She sips her water.

  She’s changing the direction of our conversation, and I’m grateful. It’s not a pleasant subject for me, despite the fact that I’m as over it as I can be.

  I sit back in my seat, the tension melting from my shoulders. “It’s going well, I think. Claire’s adjusting. Honestly, she didn’t need much adjusting.” Claire’s an easy kid. I’ve yet to see her throw a fit, though Aubrey assures me she’s still on her best behavior, and it’s just a matter of time.

  “And Aubrey?” Lauren’s gaze pins me. This question is more difficult to answer.

  “Aubrey is…” I shift in my chair. “She’s adjusting too.”

  “Why the hesitation?”

  I sip my iced tea, thinking of how to answer Lauren’s question. I don’t know how things are going with Aubrey. We have good conversation, she smiles and seems happy. Together, we put Claire to bed every night. But then she steps from Claire’s room, mumbles good night, and practically runs to her room. It’s as if she’s reached max capacity and might implode.

  “She seems happy, but I wonder if it’s a front for Claire.” The guilt I’ve been fighting creeps in. “I insisted she move in. I was so sure it was the right choice for Claire, but I didn’t think much about Aubrey.”

  “Aubrey is an adult. She made the choice she thought was best.”

  “Yeah,” I mumble, not because I agree but because it’s easier not to argue with her. I check my watch under the table. Our food needs to arrive soon.

  “Isaac, seriously.” Lauren’s voice is insistent. “Aubrey’s a big girl. She’s not anywhere she doesn’t want to be.” Her look is stern, eyebrows drawn together and chin cocked a few degrees to the left. It’s the look my mother has given us a million times. I won’t tell her that now, though. I know better.

  Lunch comes to the table, and I eat like I haven’t seen food in three days. I refuse to think about Aubrey any longer. For my sanity, and for the sake of my next patient, I need to start clearing my mind.

  Why?

  Why?

  I think I might be dying.

  My body is too hot. I stretch across the short distance from my bed to my nightstand, reaching for my phone. My whole body screams in agony from the effort.

  I check the time. Two forty-two a.m. I need water. Cold water.

  After forcing one leg over the side of th
e bed, and then the other, I stand. Sort of. I’m bent at the waist. I shuffle out the door and down the hall, pausing twice. By the time I make it to the fridge, I’ve taken four breaks.

  I’m overcome by the work it takes to remove the pitcher of water and get a cup while staying upright on shaky legs. My forehead meets the cool marble countertop for a quick rest.

  “Aubrey?” Isaac is beside me.

  “Hmmm?” The word reverberates against my lips. The marble feels so good even my lips are laid against it.

  “Are you sick?” Concern presses into his voice.

  Using my palms and every ounce of strength I have, I push up to my bent-standing position.

  “I’m fine. I just… need… rest.” It’s hard to say so many words at once. “And water.” I reach for the countertop to steady myself.

  Isaac wraps one arm around my lower back and the other across my chest, from shoulder to shoulder. I release some of my weight. It feels nice not to be responsible for all of it right now.

  “Let’s get you to bed. I’ll bring your water.” Isaac’s voice soothes me. “Have you checked your temperature?”

  “Burning,” I mumble. I don’t need a thermometer to tell me I’m around 102. It’s a mom thing.

  We get to my room and Isaac helps me into bed. He pulls the covers around me and steps back. I watch him through hooded eyes.

  “I’ll be right back with the water. Do you need anything else?”

  “I’ll be fine,” I croak, closing my eyes.

  Every second blends into the next, and I don’t know how long he takes. Eventually I feel a cold rag pressed to my forehead and hear the sound of a cup being placed on the nightstand.

  I don’t trust my body right now so I can’t be certain, but I think I feel something brush my lips. Fingertips, maybe?

  “Take a drink, Aubrey.” His thumb pulls on my chin, willing me to open my mouth. His hand slips behind my neck, lifting my head for me. The glass is at my lips, and I sip three times. It’s cold and possibly the best thing I’ve ever tasted.

  Gently he lays my head on the pillow, his hand slipping away.

  “Get some rest.” His voice is soft.