So I get we both fucked up, though it isn’t immature to say his was a way huger fuckup. But we can’t do that, you and me. We can’t hit the skids and not talk about it. You can’t coast in a marriage, a relationship. You have to keep your eye on the ball all the time.”
“Okay, so I have this clear, if you clam up and get in your head, I got your permission to shake you out of it?”
She nodded vehemently. “Absolutely. I cannot even begin to tell you how ridiculous and pathetic I feel that my marriage ended because my husband and I didn’t talk to each other. And then it was too late. Now you and I have found each other again. And that’s an impossibility. And you mean so much to me, I honest to God don’t know what I’d do if I threw you away because I didn’t open my mouth and speak.”
And you mean so much to me…
Yeah, he could be down with this guy in their life.
Totally.
“Well, just pointing out, seems like you’re not havin’ a lot of issues with that right about now,” he teased.
Her body jerked.
Then she melted into him.
And did it laughing.
Thank fuck.
He tucked her even closer and held her through it.
When it was waning, it sucked, but it had to be done.
“I’m sorry you went through that. I’m sorry he did that to you. And I’m sorry you lost him. I also hope he gets it together so in the way you got, you can have him back.”
Right.
He got that out.
Now the easy.
“But I’m glad you lived and learned it, honey. Because I honest to God don’t know what I’d do if I lost you either. So let’s both keep our eye on the ball and make sure that doesn’t happen.”
She burrowed in and muttered, “That’s a deal.”
“Now, I remember you’d rather cut off your own hand than serve meatballs that were not freshly cooked with your sauce, so by my estimation, the time is now to get frying. But I would not be doing my job if I didn’t share with you that your mascara is a disaster so you probably should get on that first.”
She lurched out of his arms and her hands flew to her face.
“Ohmigod!” she cried.
“Can I start frying while you’re in the bathroom wiping?” he requested.
She nodded and took off, bossing, “Low heat, Bowie. Browned, not burned.”
Like he’d forget that.
He’d had meatball duty a lot back in the day.
But he might often be veggie, there was one thing he agreed with his dad about.
A man knew how to cook meat.
The skillet was already out.
He found the meatballs in the fridge.
She didn’t skimp on those either.
There had to be three dozen of them.
Jesus.
Gen re-joined him to look in on the sauce while he was putting them (or at least the first round of them) in the skillet.
She stayed close, probably to make sure he did it right.
So he curled an arm around her shoulders and held her there while he completed this task.
“Thanks for listening,” she whispered.
He gave her a squeeze. “You’re welcome.”
“Thanks for knowing there was something wrong and pulling it out.”
“You’re welcome for that too.”
“And thanks for sharing honestly I was annoying you with the Imogen Swan stuff. I’ll back off doing that.”
He turned and kissed the side of her head.
Then he said, “Do you. If I get irritated, we’ll hash it out. But we will hash it out, Gen. Okay?”
“Okay,” she mumbled, resting her weight into his side.
“When do the Cardinals get here?” he asked.
“What?”
“I’m only assuming, since you made enough to feed a football team.”
She made a “puh” noise and pressed her hip into his.
He grinned at the meat.
He stopped grinning when he heard a door go up in the garage.
“Is Chloe coming back tonight?” Gen asked, because clearly, she’d heard it too.
“No, but regardless, she had the opener for your door, something you now have.”
“You mean, my daughter had my spot before me?”
He shot her a smile as he moved to the garage door.
He opened it.
And sighed.
Because in Gage’s spot in the four-car garage, folding out of his youngest son’s orange Subaru Crosstek hybrid was not only Gage.
But Sully.
It was Friday night so no class on the weekend.
But for fuck’s sake, his oldest lived nearly two thousand miles away.
Apparently, Gage was up from Tucson.
And he’d swung by Sky Harbor on his way.
“Please tell me my eyes are deceiving me,” he called.
“Whose Cayenne, Dad?” Gage called back, eyeing the