slouch to his shoulders, the slow way he moved, standing a second to rub at his temples before retrieving his bags from the back seat—he seemed so tired, run-down by work, by new parenthood. From a distance, for a moment, the shadow of his form was unfamiliar, as if she were seeing him for the first time. She wanted to run to him. Instead, she opened the door and went to stand on the porch.
He paused at the bottom step, looked up at her. The cool of the day had turned downright chilly, a light wind tossing his hair.
“Sorry,” he said. “I tried to get home earlier.”
It was his default greeting lately. Rain felt a wash of compassion. He was working all day, and she was here in their safe, happy home with the baby. Yeah, it was hectic, all-consuming, a bit thankless. But it could also be peaceful, joyful, quiet—just the two of them. He might have a freedom that she no longer had—the freedom to come and go as he chose. But he faced different challenges—deadlines, the endless pressure to be right, to be first, an asshole boss, slackers on his team.
All the things she thought she wanted to leave behind.
She walked down the steps, wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him long on the mouth. He dropped his bag, and wrapped her up, lifting her a little off the ground.
“How was your day?” Rain asked, pulling back a little.
He kissed her again, soft, sweet, that familiar heat rising between them.
“Better now.”
The day, the things she’d learned and done, buzzed around her head. She led him inside. It was late, after nine, his dinner warming in the oven. She’d taken a shower, dressed, done her makeup. Usually, by the time he came home she was in loungewear, hair up, contacts out and glasses on.
“Did I miss date night?” he asked in the kitchen, grabbing her from behind as she took the food from the oven. “You’re beautiful.”
“I just thought you deserved to remember what I look like in something other than my pajamas,” she said, plating his food.
“You’re beautiful in pajamas, too.”
He took a seat at the kitchen bar and she poured him a glass of wine.
“How was your day?” he asked. “How’s our girl?”
She ran down the day—the jog in the park, the mundane tasks, activities, how much Lily was talking. He ran through his—a clash with the on-air talent, technical issues, still no word on the promotion he was sure to get.
It was their agreement, that someone be home. Home and kids had to be someone’s primary job; it was a job. They’d chosen this and neither of them was supposed to complain. (Of course, they both did, all the time.) But they’d agreed to an audit at the end of the first year. How was everybody doing? How was the money situation? Was everybody happy? That conversation was overdue. She put his plate in front of him.
“Hear anything today about Markham?” she asked, trying to segue toward that topic. She felt a flutter of nerves. She wasn’t sure why.
“I heard the Feds took over—which I thought was a little odd,” he said, watching her. “We sent a crew over this afternoon, but no one’s talking. We were only able to run a small segment. You?”
“I made a few calls, did a little research.”
“What did you find out?”
She told him what Christopher had told her, about her chat with Henry, about the press conference tomorrow. He nodded, rubbed at the stubble on his chin. Of course, he knew it all. He was downplaying. He’d lived the Markham case with her. He knew it had its hooks in her for all kinds of reasons.
“What?” he said when she was done. He tapped his head. “What’s going on in there?”
“I was just thinking.”
He offered a curious frown. “I know that tone.”
“I want to follow this new angle of the story.”
“Follow it?” he said. He took a bite of turkey. “Hmm. This is good.”
“Doing some follow-up work.”
“Freelance?” he said, mouth full.
“Something like that,” she said. “Something long-form. Like maybe a podcast.”
The word felt awkward, even silly now that she’d put it out there. And the look on Greg’s face—something between confusion and disbelief—didn’t help.
These kinds of things—podcasts, blogs, the self-published book—had a bad name in the industry. The internet had essentially killed traditional news, lowered all the standards for reporting, writing, editing. It undermined the educated, veteran journalists who cared about things like ethics and The Chicago