LYRA

10.18.16

There’s something downright magical about the fair on a warm, muggy summer night, when the sun disappears behind the giant Ferris wheel and the blinking lights grow brighter and more mesmerizing against the inky night sky. The heavenly aromatic combination of funnel cakes, sausage on a stick, and fried Twinkies hangs like a canopy over the grounds, making your mouth water and your stomach growl. A soundtrack of balloons popping, bells ringing, and screams of joy from young and old alike plays on a constant loop in the background. A complete sensory overload that pulls you in, drowns you in happiness, and swallows you whole from the second you arrive until the moment you leave.

When my parents died the weekend before my eleventh birthday—the day we were supposed to leave for our annual trip to the Texas State Fair—I repressed every memory I had about this place, burying it in the dark recesses of my mind. The pain was too much for me at that age, especially coupled with the sudden realization of the significance of the six-digit numbers I see in people’s eyes, and consequently, I forgot about some of the absolute best days of my life.

But now, days before my twenty-fifth birthday and on the fourteenth anniversary of my parents’ accident, I stand here outside the entrance with my husband and stare up at the iconic enormous inflatable cowboy that looms high above the entire grounds, without an ounce of grief or sorrow inside me. My focus is on the future and the memories I’ve yet to make with my own family. The ones that start now.

I glance down at the tiny eleven-week-old sleeping human strapped to my chest, and the already huge smile on my face somehow stretches even wider. “Chloe looks pretty pumped about her first fair, doesn’t she?” I joke, lightly squeezing Tavian’s fingers linked with mine. “With our luck, she’ll probably sleep through the entire thing and wake up as soon as we get back to the hotel.”

“I’d say the odds of that happening are pretty high, but I’m no mathematician.” He grins and gives me that damn chin-dimple that makes my knees go weak, while softly stroking the top of our daughter’s bald head with his thumb. “At least not anymore. I’m a man of words now. A wordsmith, if you will.”

I roll my eyes and laugh, though I really shouldn’t. I’ve read To Jupiter and Back, the book he’s written and waiting to publish, and all love-bias aside, it’s absolutely phenomenal. So good, in fact, when he queried agents to shop it for him earlier this year, every person he contacted was interested in representing him, and he had his choice of who he wanted to work with. Since then, he’s signed a three-book deal with a publishing giant and is currently in talks with screenwriters about adapting the first novel into a film. Like I’ve always said—he’s an overachiever.

“You’ll always be a math nerd, babe,” I tease as I lean over and peck his scruffy cheek. “But if you want to smith some words right now, I suggest they be along the lines of ‘let’s go have fun!’ or I may explode with anticipation.”

He catches me by the waist and pulls me close, careful not to squish or disrupt the baby’s nap in the process—a maneuver he has perfected over the last couple of months—and then crashes his lips down on mine in a hard, possessive kiss. “The only exploding you’ll be doing, buttercup,” he growls low in my ear, sending a sensual shiver snaking up my spine, “will be when you’re riding my cock later tonight and letting me play with those beautiful tits.”

“Tavian.” My cheeks burn hot with embarrassment, even though no one is close enough to have heard him, and my nipples grow tight under my bra. After getting over the shock of finding out I was pregnant at my six-week post-op appointment—my IUD was unknowingly jarred loose during the Annie incident—I was worried that Tavian wouldn’t find me attractive once I started gaining weight and my body shape began to change. But I couldn’t have been more wrong.

He can’t keep his hands off me now, especially my boobs, which I must admit have profited the most from the weight gain. I did try to nurse Chloe at the beginning, but she struggled to latch on properly, and after spending night after night in tears, frustrated and feeling like a failure, I switched her to formula at the three-week mark, for her health and my sanity. It wasn’t an easy decision, but I’ve since made my peace with it, and that peace comes in the form of Tavian being able to participate in night feedings and my fuller, more sensitive rack being available for him to play with whenever he wants. Which is all the damn time.

It wouldn’t surprise me if I end up pregnant again before the end of the year.

Releasing my hip from his grasp, he relaces our fingers together and winks mischievously. “C’mon, my gorgeous girls. Let’s go have fun! Show me everything you remember and lead me to whatever smells so damn good.”

We take off onto the grounds and I spend the next four hours sharing with Tavian and Chloe—who does sleep through most of it, though it’s not like she knows what’s going on anyway—everything my parents and I used to do when we came. Though I can’t ride anything other than the carousel with her wrapped to my chest, I still show him all my old favorites and we talk about which ones we want to ride when we come back next year and every year after that.

It might seem silly to some people, traveling all the way from our home in Philadelphia to Dallas, to attend a fair we can’t actively enjoy, but not to us. Not even for a second. The events over the last year-and-a-half have reiterated the importance of making the most of the time we’re given, and we don’t waste a single day.

Now, that’s not to say we don’t have many days where we lounge around the apartment in our pajamas and do nothing but watch bad TV and eat junk food, but we appreciate those quiet, lazy moments as much as we do the loud, crazy ones. Tavian and I constantly work together to find the perfect balance for our little family, and despite the chaos that often surrounds us, we’ve proven to be a kick-ass team.

From my extensive recovery and rehab, to the all-encompassing life changes that come with having a baby, to the stress of dealing with the legal case against Annie—which is still ongoing—our first year of marriage has been about as far from smooth and uneventful as it gets. Yet, through it all, Tavian and I only grow closer and stronger, even when he annoys the crap out of me to the point I want to hide in the aisles of Target and eat ice cream I haven’t paid for straight from the carton.

Okay, I’ve only done that once. And in my defense, I was seven months pregnant and had just found my first stretch mark.

“You look exhausted, buttercup, and baby girl is passed out again. How about we call it a night and head back to the hotel?” Tavian asks, his voice pulling me from my deep inner thoughts. “We can come back in the morning and try some of this deep-fried bacon you keep raving about. I’ll have to decide if it goes on the official record or not.”

Grinning, I cuddle me and Chloe up to his strong chest and gaze into his electric blue eyes as his numbers—042376—shine brightly back at me. We still don’t know why we can see the numbers, or why they disappeared for those few months last year, or if our daughter—whose numbers are 053091—will be able to see them too. But we can’t control any of that, just like we can’t control when our time is up.

So we focus on our depth and width, and we continue to add and scratch things off our bucket list. And when our time here on earth finally does expire, we have no doubt our love will last for an eternity.