I shrug through a yawn. “Probably just something about CeCe.”
“She still upset about that party?”
“And a million other things,” I say, yawning again. “See you tomorrow.”
My shoes echo on the industrial floor as I drag myself through our trendy office space. I doubt Tommy will be awake when I get home, which is probably for the best since I’m too tired to talk about anything tonight.
Some days it’s harder than others to remind myself that this is the life I fought to live. The reward for standing up against every chauvinist who told me that women don’t make it far in the advertising industry because they have kids. They probably would have been right about me if it hadn’t been for Tommy.
“DADDY, HAVE YOU seen my purple tank?”
I step into the hallway between our bedrooms and answer CeCe. “I think it’s down in the laundry room.”
“Daddy?” she asks again, and I wonder if I said the words out loud or just thought them.
“It’s in the laundry room,” Tommy echoes. “Still in the dryer, I bet.”
He coughs the deep cough he’s had for a few weeks now. The long hours I’ve been putting in are taking a toll on him, too. I’m about to remind him he should make an appointment to get a Z-Pak or something, when CeCe steps between us, scowling in my direction before making a dramatic exit.
As much as I want to remind her she has me to thank for buying her the tank top in the first place, I don’t. And not just because I can feel Tommy watching, waiting to critique my reaction. Sometimes it stinks living with a shrink.
“If you say it’s just a stage I’ll scream,” I tell him.
“You came in late last night,” he says, wisely changing the subject.
I yawn, as if realizing just how little I slept could make me even more tired. “This project will be over soon.”
“And then the next one will start,” Tommy says. I want to defend myself and say that’s not fair, but he’s right. “Don’t forget CeCe is making a special dinner for us tonight.”
“I won’t forget,” I promise.
Tommy smiles and kisses the bridge of my nose before pulling me in for a hug. I love the way we still fit perfectly together after all these years. I wrap my arms around him, breathing in the scent of the herbal shampoo he uses even though there hasn’t been any hair on his head in more than two decades.
Sometimes it’s hard to reconcile this strong and sturdy forty-eight-year-old man with little Tommy Whistler, the chubby boy from my childhood who stuttered when he spoke, quietly observing the world with one blue eye and one brown.
I tilt my head to give him a kiss, a silent thank-you for being everything he is. He’s the one who holds our family, and our life, together. If it weren’t for him always being there for CeCe, my guilt over putting in the hours it takes to run an agency would be crippling.
“Get a room.” CeCe squeezes past us into her bedroom, purple tank top in hand, and slams the door in our faces.
I parrot her tone: “We don’t need a room, we got a house.”
“You’re not helping,” Tommy says.
I’m about to tell him I was trying to be funny when my phone chirps a warning alarm. It’s almost time to go and I’m nowhere near ready. He frowns as I slip out of his arms.
“I’m not avoiding anything,” I tell him before he has a chance to say otherwise. “I just have to get ready for work.”
He follows me into the bathroom, watching as I put a serum on my face that costs more than a month of lattes. “You wanted to talk about something?” I ask, remembering the email he sent yesterday afternoon.
Before he can answer, my phone starts quacking—the tone Becky programmed for her calls. “Sorry.” I’m saying that word a lot lately.
Tommy heads downstairs to make our princess’s lunch while I talk to Becky about an early morning client request and speed through my blush-bronzer-eye-shadow-lip routine. He’s a better mom than I’d ever dream of being. Not that I ever dreamed of being a mom.
I find him in the kitchen for a quick kiss goodbye.
“Don’t forget dinner tonight,” Tommy says. “Six-thirty.”
“I won’t,” I promise. “I’ll even set an alarm to remind me.”
On my way out, I call up to tell CeCe to have a good day. I pause, waiting for