Calling Him By My Name [Armie Hammer + Timothée Chalamet | Charmie | mxb]

24 | Timothée

Liz and Armie are fighting again, and I'm running out of excuses to tell the kids.

I can hear their heated, choleric match through the walls; every time it seems like they've fought it out, they start up yet again even louder. I'm pretty sure Liz is crying, but Armie doesn't lower his voice one decibel.

When they start putting down some nastier words, I collect the kids and take them out. I tell Hops we're going out for an evening walk in honour of her birthday, but she's too smart to believe me. She knows something's wrong; I can sense it in the tense, anxious way she grips the hem of my shirt as I push Ford's stroller down the street.

It's almost sunset; the LA roads are bustling as always but the streets are relatively quiet. Ford, blissfully unaware of the situation, cranes his head out of his stroller and eagerly takes in the sights and sounds of the city atmosphere. My heart warms to the point of melting each time those big blue eyes light up with a new discovery, each time those small petal lips form around a new word. He points one tiny index finger at the passing cars and emulates, vroom vroom, bouncing eagerly in his seat.

When we stop at a park, I pull out my phone and shoot Armie a message to let him know where we are so he doesn't worry. I sit down in the grass with the kids and watch the sun set while they play at my feet. Ford keeps bringing me little gifts that he finds, beaming at me like a cherub. He drops dandelions at my feet like they're gold, not weeds, and crawls away again for more. When he starts playing with bugs, I pull him into my lap.

"Hey, Hops," I gently coax the unusually quiet toddler. "Could you pick out a book for us to read, please?"

Harper doesn't put up a fight, just dips her hand into the baby bag I carry for Ford and takes out the first hardcover she finds. She sits beside me and I set the book on Ford's lap, situating the baby on mine. He immediately starts running his fingers over the cover, mumbling nonsensically at the pictures. Opening the book, I begin to read to them. Ford often tries to flip the page before I'm done reading it, growing impatient once he's done looking at the illustrations.

Everything he does is so adorable to me, I can hardly stand it. I love his restless bouncing; I love how tiny his fingers are, wrapped around my long ones; I love the sweet chirp of his voice when we practice sounding out new words. Even Harper soon forgets the grave situation at home and loosens up, laughing and leaning against my side.

When it starts to get dark, I strap a sleepy Ford back into his stroller and take the two children back home. I inhale deeply, glad for the refreshing coolness of the evening air. I'm glad I bundled the kids up well. Ford kicks his feet and squirms, demanding to be set free so he can walk like his big sister. He's a pro on his feet now, but I don't feel comfortable setting him loose on the streets. All the passerby on the streets smile and wave and coo at him and his sister, making Ford stuff his fist shyly in his mouth. I pause to find his paci and he takes it in eagerly, sucking rhythmically on it like nobody's business. I don't blame pedestrians for stopping and begging for a chance to hold the sweet baby angel. He's docile and calm as they take his hand and kiss his knuckles and forehead with adoration and awe, staring up at his admirers with big, blue eyes and puffed-out cheeks that contract rapidly around his pacifier.

Before long, we're home. The house is colossal, golden lights winking warmly against a backdrop of indigo sky. It's quiet inside, which is a relief. I put Harper to bed after she brushes her teeth and changes into her pyjamas. By this point, Ford is asleep and drooling in his stroller.