Sosie

“Ugh.” I almost have the bear, but he’s frustratingly just out of reach. Who put Paddington on the high shelf anyway? That would be me when I was allowed to climb ladders. Since I’m seven months pregnant, the challenges of being short strike again. “Keats?” I walk out of the closet in the baby’s room and down the hall to the top of the stairs, and call again, “Keats?”

The framed photos of us, our honeymoon in Hawaii, a photo of the apartment building where he lived when we met, and the front of the house where I grew up all hang together with the one of our home together. A lot has changed in our lives and seeing it hung on the wall in various stages of our lives reminds me of the life we’re creating together.

The bad is behind us, no cages to fly in and out of, no dark clouds controlling my days and nights. Only good. Only Keats loving me to the fullest. I didn’t believe love existed like this. I mean, I loved him. He was not just the one who got away, for a short time, but the love of my life. But this love, the one we share now, the one that bonds us together more than a piece of paper or legalities ever could, runs deeper than the ocean and vaster than the universe. It’s too big most days to hold inside so I shower him with all I have that I can’t contain inside.

“Yeah?” he asks, peering from around the corner at the base of the stairs.

“Can you help me reach something?”

He’s already walking up, that smile that still only reveals itself to me, the one that could get me into bed without a word said or ready to offer me ice cream. It always comes with something good attached. Stopping two steps lower, he leans forward, and says, “Kiss me.”

As if that would ever be considered a burden. Never.

I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him and then deepen it because I can never get enough of this man. Our lips part, and our tongues touch, tempting the other into seduction. Reaching around me, he lifts me off the floor. Realizing it’s not quite the same as it typically is since my body is ever changing, I giggle. He sets me down and opens his eyes. “I can carry you.”

“I know you can.” I rub his bicep, partly for me, some for him as if he needs the reassurance because I didn’t mean to insinuate the man couldn’t lift me. Tilting my head, I caress his cheek. “It’s not why I called you up here.”

“Oh?”

Another bubble of laughter escapes my throat. How did I get so lucky? I was never the white picket fence kind of girl. I may have been raised in Manhattan society, but this city, the vibe, and all that it holds, tunnels through my veins like a subway. But Keats Matthews is my soul. Life with him is better than I could have dreamed. Marriage. A baby on the way. Moving from his high-rise in Tribeca to a Brownstone in Brooklyn. We crossed the universe to create our own little world just for me and him. I rub my bulging belly, and this little guy who will be joining us soon. I say, “I’m flattered you came so quickly just from me saying your name.”

“Well, came is subjective,” he says, rubbing his hands together. “How can I help you?”

I start down the hall back into the baby’s room with him following closely. “Can you reach my Paddington bear on the top shelf for me? I want to set it on the shelf near the crib.”

He doesn’t even have to lift to get the stuffed bear down. He squeezes its belly. “Why is it so hard?”

“It’s old.” I shrug.

Flipping it over, he lifts the little coat in the back. “You know there’s a zipper?”

I take the bear from him and return to the room next to the crib, looking it over. “It’s just for the stuffing, right?”

“Aren’t most stuffed animals sewn closed?” Keats takes Winifred from dresser and points to her butt. “See?”

I grin. Lifting the coat on my bear, I pull down the zipper. “You act like I’m going to find hidden treas—What is this?” I pull out a spikey piece of metal. “A key? What would this go to?” I hand it to him.

He analyzes it for a few seconds. “Two. Four. One. Two forty-one is on one side.” His eyes meet mine, and he says, “My guess is it goes to a safe deposit box.”

“I don’t have a box.”

Holding up the key, the light catches the surface of the shiny silver metal, and he says. “Looks like you do now.”

I’d been planning a nap after organizing the last of the items I wanted to display in the baby’s room, but finding this key sends a thrill of excitement zipping up my spine. It’s a mystery waiting to be unraveled and I know a nap isn’t going to happen until I solve it.

Standing at the entrance of the bank, I’ve used my entire life because my parents did, keeping their money here as well, I wait for the guard to return. I shift, looking around as if I’m about to be caught, and then whisper to Keats, “Why am I nervous?”

His grin is soft as his eyes return from scanning the inside of the bank to mine. He rubs my lower back and then the warmth of his hand rests on my shoulder. “No need to be nervous. Maybe it’s just a box you had when you were young, and you forgot about it.”

“I didn’t have a box. I had a safe built into my closet.” Just hearing me say that brings up so many weird feelings for me. The amount of privilege, the access to wealth was natural to me. Now, I see how I took most of it for granted, but Keats never judges even when he has a right to. But there was a tradeoff. Nothing comes for free, and I paid a high price for everything I had. I gave up hell and everything that came with it for a chance at being happy and landed in heaven with my soul mate.

Sometimes I wish I would have done it the first time but testing my father’s reach and power isn’t something I was willing to risk Keats’ future on. As he says, our timing worked out exactly how it was supposed to. So wasting another minute on the past isn’t something I typically do, but this box has me curious.

He slips his hand in mine just as the guard returns. “Follow me.” Leading us down a short corridor, he says, “The manager will help you from here.”

“Thank you,” I say, dragging my free hand down the side of my dress.

We enter the private room to find a small metal box on the table. “Here’s your key,” the manager says, handing it back to me. “When you’re done, the box goes there. Lock it, and I’ll lock the door behind you.”

My heart is beating too hard, my nerves bunching in my throat. I clear it but I’m not ready to speak so I nod.

When we’re alone, Keats and I sit on the same side of the table. I drag my palms over the skirt of my dress once more and then lift the hinged lid back. I glance at Keats. “I don’t know what I was expecting, but it was a letter.” I take the cream-colored envelope out of the box and flip it over to see my mother’s monogram embossed on it.

Keats comfort extends beyond how he rubs my back as if he knows I need his touch. His other hand rests on my leg, and he asks, “Are you okay?”

“I’m okay. I just . . .” I take a breath, not sure why tears are welling in my eyes. “It’s a lot.”

“Your relationship with her has grown in positive ways.”

“It has. I enjoy my time with her. It’s just hitting me that she gave this bear to me at our wedding. She mentioned it at the hospital and that was when we weren’t speaking at all. I don’t think this is a new box or letter. That’s what makes me nervous. What if it says something hateful?” I look into his eyes hoping to find the assurance I need.

“You were already on a path of healing. She wouldn’t have given it to you at the wedding and ruin everything.”

I lick my lips, scrapping my teeth over the lower one. “You’re right. I’m not going to overthink this. I’m just opening it.” I rip open the envelope and pull out a letter. Unfolding it, I read:

Dear Sosie,

Your light has always shined brighter than this world could handle. But I finally realized it wasn’t the world dimming your light. It was us. I stood by feeling helpless until I realized I’d enabled him to turn into the person he became. Maybe I caused it.

A tear slides down my cheek and lands on the wooden table. I wipe it away before taking a breath and glancing at my husband, who so patiently waits for my emotions to run the gamut. “She blames herself for the person my father became.” It’s not a question so I’m expecting some great revelation of an answer. That part just hit me differently. “She’s not responsible for him.”

“I have a feeling she had no choice. Sometimes we end up locked in a life of our own choosing. Maybe she was scared to leave or maybe she stayed to protect you. You could ask her.” I could ask her. He leans over to place a kiss on the top of my head. “Life is complicated. Sometimes we believe we’re doing what’s right only to find out in hindsight that we hurt the ones we were trying to protect.”

“I hate that for me.” I rest my head on his arm under his tight embrace. Like everything else with my parents, my feelings are complicated. But if I can step back and give grace, I realize that things aren't as black and white as I once thought. There’s a lot of gray between us. “But I got out of that situation. She didn’t. Who knows what she’s had to endure.” I start reading again:

I’d like to tell you how your father was once a different person, but does it matter now? We can talk about it if you would like though. Otherwise, I’m so glad to be in your life. I love you. I always loved you, Sosie. I’m sorry that I wasn’t a better mother. I’m sorry for not being the one you needed. I regret every day I chose silence to keep the anger at bay instead of fighting for you.

The second tear falls, this time splattering across the letter and causing the ink to bleed. I rush to read the rest before the words disappear.

Nothing can make up for what you’ve been through but to see you with a husband who utterly adores you, a sweet baby on the way, and to know you fought for your happiness has hope blooming inside of myself. You’re so brave, dear daughter.

I have something that I’ve been working on since you were little, a secret I’ve never told anyone. There’s an account fully in your name. The number is on a slip of paper in the envelope. It was only a little here and a bit from there. Some for your account and some for mine. I predict big changes ahead in my life as well. It can’t make up for anything, but I hope it helps in creating the life you love.

Love,

Your Mom

My heart clenches. “She’s given me money.”

“Why would she do that?”

I shake my head. I could jump to conclusions that it’s to make up for not protecting me like she should have. But I think it’s deeper than that. “I think she was helping me escape.”

He releases a long breath, his hand rubbing my thigh. “You did it before she could give it to you.”

Sitting back, the tears dry under the realization that she was looking out for me the best she could. “It makes me feel that I wasn’t so alone after all.” I sigh, the breath heavy as it leaves my chest. “I wish I would have known then.”

I stand, closing the box, taking the letter and tucking it back into the envelope before pulling out the piece of paper with the bank account number on it. “As much as I love a mystery, I think my mom loves it more. She’s been stashing cash for me.”

“Unexpected.” He chuckles as we walk to the door. “So what are you thinking? Twenty K? Fifty?”

Now he has me laughing. “Hrm. I’m thinking . . .” We walk to an available teller. I ask, “Will you please print a balance for me?”

She starts typing while I turn to Keats and hook my finger around his belt loop to tug him closer. “What do I win if I get closer?”

Bending down, he whispers in my ear, “I’ll make sure you see stars later when I eat your sweet—”

“Here you go,” the teller says, handing me a printed balance receipt.

“—for dessert,” he finishes sending heat through my body.

My face is on fire from blushing so much. “Thank you.” I rush to take his hand and bound for the exit. I need fresh air outside, hoping it cools me off.

“You're naughty.”

Dragging the tips of two fingers along my jaw, he says, “You love it.”

“You’re not wrong.” With the paper crumpled in my hand, I say, “I’m thinking a million.”

“A million? You said this is cash she was stashing?”

I shrug. “It was.” As disbelief morphs his eyes to understanding, he chuckles again. “She handled the house finances while my father ran his business. That gave her access to a lot of money flowing through there. So I’m sticking with a million.” I flatten the sheet to read the balance, and smile. This wasn’t a short-term thing for her. The only way to skim this much money and to create an account of her own, she had to be doing it most of my life.

“What is it?” he asks.

I’m not sure he’s ready though. He may not judge me for my family’s extraordinary wealth, but this isn’t theirs. This is now ours. I hand him the paper and then take his free hand between both of mine. And wait because I know a reaction is coming.

His eyes dart to mine and then bounce right back to the slip of paper. The pull of his brows is followed by bewilderment as he stares into the distance.

“Are you okay, Poet?”

It’s not immediate but when his gaze finally returns to mine, he swallows hard enough for me to hear. “I’ve made millions in finance over the years, enough for us to retire and never work again.” Holding up the paper, he says, “This is what she skimmed without your father noticing?” He rolls his eyes along with his head on his neck, making me smirk. “Fuck me.” When he chuckles without an ounce of humor, his smirk matches mine. “So the Stansbury women are the craftier ones by far. Eight million, Spark?”

“Seems so.” My grin blooms into a full-grown smile. “We have enough money, as you said, I think I’ll put this in a trust fund for our kids.” We start walking down the street, holding hands. We reach the corner, and I stop. Looking up at my gorgeous husband, I add, “Two things. One, since I won, I look forward to some action when we get home.”

“My pleasure.” He leans to kiss me. “And two?”

“Did I ever tell you about the trust fund I get when I hit thirty?”

Keats tries so hard for indifference, but shock wins out, widening his eyes and parting those lips that I want to kiss so badly again. “I think you failed to mention it.”

The crosswalk starts beeping but we remain standing at the corner. “Well, if you thought eight million was a lot, you haven’t seen anything yet.” I lift on my toes to kiss him and then turn to cross the street. But my body jerks back when he doesn’t cross with me. I turn back to see the immovable giant, and laugh. “It’s going to be okay.”

“Sounds more than okay.”

“Yeah, we’re going to be more than okay. Together.” We start walking again. “What do you think about the name Austen with an e?”

I feel the gentle squeeze of his hand wrapped around mine. “As in Jane Austen?”

“You’re named after John Keats. You never told me why by the way.”

“It’s a conversation for my mother. I like Austen.”

“Me too.” My hunger kicks in the moment I spy a bagel shop across the street. I start pulling him in that direction. “If I loved you less . . .” I wait to hear my poet recite sweet lines back to me. I haven’t stumped him yet, but I still try.

“I might be able to talk about it more,” he replies with ease as if it wasn’t recalled at all but slid straight from his heart off his tongue.

“Emma is one of my favorite novels. Bagel?”

I’m captured in his embrace and kissed like we’re alone at home, the electricity between us reaching my toes. When I’m breathless and just a noodle of swooniness in his arms, he leans back, and says, “Yes, on the bagel and on the name. Austen Matthews has a great ring to it.”

“It sure does.”