Micaela lowers him, so he’s vertical again. Unlike the last time I saw him, he’s able to hold his head up, and his eyes meet mine curiously. His fingers go to his mouth, but Micaela removes them, popping a pacifier into his mouth.
“Want to hold him?” she asks, stepping closer to me. When she turns slightly, I can see the onesie he’s wearing is camouflage and reads, Some heroes wear capes, mine wears combat boots.
A lump, the size of a hand grenade, blocks my airway. Micaela has every reason to despise that part of my life, and I know she’s terrified of it, yet, while I was still in Afghanistan, she moved us into the home I bought for her. She dresses our son in outfits like the one he’s wearing now. She’s been kicked down, but she still remains so damn strong.
“Ryan,” she prompts, shaking me from my thoughts.
“Yeah,” I choke out, clearing my throat when the word comes out barely audible. “Yes, please.” I extend my arms and she hands RJ over to me.
“RJ, this is your daddy,” she says softly, as if he understands her.
His gaze locks with mine, and for a second I worry he’s going to cry. But then his hands come up, rubbing on the short beard I have because I wasn’t able to shave for over a week. He spits out his pacifier, and then his mouth opens like a hungry fish. Before I can figure out what he’s doing, his drool-filled mouth lands on my nose.
Micaela giggles. “He’s giving you kisses.”
I stand there, frozen in my place, while my son gums the hell out of my nose—saliva dripping down into my mouth—and thank God that I’m able to be here with my family.
A minute later, RJ pulls away from my nose, replacing his mouth with his fingers. He squeezes my nostrils, his eyes going slightly cross-eyed as he stares intently at my face. I chuckle at how fucking curious he is.
“Hey there, little guy,” I say, keeping my voice soft. “I’ve missed you.”
RJ answers me by moving his hand from my nose to my mouth and pulling on my lower lip. When a laugh bubbles out of me, he grants me the most beautiful smile, and I’m almost positive, right here on the back porch of Micaela’s parents’ house, my heart leaps out of my chest and into my son’s hands.
“See,” Micaela says softly. “He totally loves you.”
“Dinner’s ready,” Marco calls over. “Get inside, so we can feed you some good ol’ American cuisine.
We all sit around the table, and Micaela offers to put RJ into his swing, but I’m not ready to let go of him yet, so I opt to eat one-handed. The conversation stays light, everyone getting me caught up on everything going on here, asking me questions like if the food we’re eating is better than over there and if I’ve gotten to take a hot shower yet. I know they’re doing it for Micaela’s benefit, not wanting to bring up what happened, and I appreciate it.
Eventually RJ gets fussy and Micaela excuses herself to grab a bottle. When he was a couple months old, she wasn’t producing enough milk, and he was cranky all the time. She made the decision to switch to formula. She cried on the phone to me that day, feeling like a failure, and I hated that I couldn’t be here to comfort her.
When she returns, she hands me the bottle, knowing I’m still not ready to give him up. His heart-shaped lips form the cutest O as he dives for the bottle. I watch him as he devours his food, sucking every ounce down like he’s starving. When he’s done, I lift him up to burp him, but he won’t stay still.
“You don’t have to do that,” Micaela says with a laugh.
Instead of eating, my attention stays on RJ, shocked and amazed at how much he’s grown. Four months feels like a damn lifetime when it comes to babies growing. The last time I held him he was tiny, his skin soft and saggy. But now he’s got muscles and baby fat filling him out. He’s less like a baby and more like a tiny, living, breathing, little human.
When dinner’s over, we hang out, bullshitting and catching up for a little while. When RJ gets cranky, Micaela informs me it’s because it’s nearing his bedtime. After saying our goodbyes, we head home. The walk with RJ is quiet, both of us lost in our own thoughts. I’m not sure what’s going through her head, but for me, I’m excited to be home and ready to finally start living my life with my family. Because that’s what we are—a family. I’m hoping Micaela and I being intimate wasn’t a one-time thing, and when we get home, we’ll be sharing a room together. I didn’t expect to come home to find my stuff moved into her place. I had planned on wooing the hell out of her and convincing her to be with me. Not that I’m complaining, but I don’t exactly know where we stand and I’m afraid to ask. Call me a coward if you want, but I don’t want to mention it and fuck up my chance of being with my family.