Jo’s voice is breathless and wavering. “Are you getting divorced? Henry’s parents got divorced, and he said they slept in different bedrooms. You just got married.”
Like I could forget. Also, who’s Henry?
A tiny sob follows Jo’s words.
“Oh, Jojo. Don’t cry.”
I reach for her at the same time Pat does, and suddenly, we are three-way hugging. Because Pat and I are both kneeling, we’re rocking unsteadily. Especially as Jo clutches at us with her scrawny arms.
Our heads end up behind Jo’s back, our faces much closer than I want them to be. When our gazes hook and catch, a zip of something hot and electric moves through my body. Pat’s dark eyes grow even darker.
It shouldn’t be possible to think about kissing him when Jo is right here, crying, and yet, somehow it is. Kissing Pat is all I can think about until Jo gives a little sniff, dragging my focus back to where it needs to stay.
“We’re not getting divorced, bear cub. Pat was just putting his things in the guest room because there’s no room in my closet,” I explain, my eyes still glued to Pat’s.
This is true. My closet is full of the crying coats. But it is also true that he’s not, no-way, no-how going to be sharing my double bed.
But he could, the feral cat whispers with a suggestive purr. They don’t call it a marriage bed for nothing.
I can’t seem to get rid of this stupid feral cat in my head. She’s like a lipstick stain on a white T-shirt—near impossible to remove and just as difficult to ignore.
“Okay,” Jo says.
I try to pull back, but Jo tightens her grip and I lose my balance. I never excelled at crouching. Maybe if I’d done more work on my leg strength…
We topple over, Pat taking the brunt of our weight with a loud oof. The three of us end up sprawled in the tiny hallway between the bedrooms and bathroom. When Pat chuckles, Jo bounces up and down, and his laugh vibrates through my cheek and chest, both of which are plastered to him.
Jo giggles, which makes my tension ease. Instead of jumping up the way I should, I relax into Pat, into Jo, into this kind of perfectly imperfect moment.
I lean in, letting Jo’s laughter and Pat’s familiar scent curl around me like smoke rising from a fledgling fire. His arm tightens around me, warm and strong, and just for a few seconds, I let myself sink into him, into the moment.
Family, I think. This feels like family.
The sensation is strange and new, yet as worn as the pair of jeans I can’t bring myself to throw away, the ones with holes where my thighs brush as I walk. I’m shocked by the fierce fire of longing, exploding from wherever I’ve kept it locked away for years.
Longing, hoping, dreaming—they’re liabilities I haven’t been able to afford. Not even if there were some kind of no-limit, no-interest credit card could I consider these things. At least, not if I don’t want to be buried alive under disappointment later. I swallow, my mouth feeling dry and papery. Can I possibly allow myself to feel these things now?
“I have an idea,” Jo says brightly, sitting up suddenly. The beauty of the moment bursts like a soap bubble—delicate and beautiful, then gone.
I force myself to stand on wobbly legs, then hold out a hand to Pat before I can think better of it.
He rises slowly, much too close to my body, his eyes fixed on mine. Pat doesn’t let go of my hand when he’s on his feet. We are inches apart, the lack of distance feeling strangely obscene, even though we were just pressed together closer than this. I hold my breath, counting the number of boards in the wood paneled wall behind his head.
“You guys,” Jo says, grabbing at us both, her whine a reminder that she’s trying to tell us something. “My idea!”
Pat turns to her, but keeps my hand trapped in his. I’m a willing prisoner, not even pretending I want to escape.
He smiles at her. “What is it, Jojo?”
Hearing Pat use her nickname so easily is a pinprick to my heart.
“You can get rid of some of your coats,” Jo says, turning to me. “Then Pat could fit his things in your closet.”
I glance quickly at Pat, who’s probably wondering why I have so many coats in the first place. “Good idea, bear cub. We’ll take it under consideration. For now, though, let’s help Pat move his things to the guest room.”
She obeys, bounding after Pat. I have a feeling I’m going to need those coats. Every. Single One.
Whether I’ll be screaming or crying in the closet, time will tell. I have a strong feeling it will be both in equal measure.
“Why do I feel as though I’m entering a cage fight to the death?” Pat asks, walking into the kitchen where I’m seated at the small table.
I tilt my head. “Not a bad idea. Maybe later.”
He pulls out the chair across from me and sits, angling his long, jean-clad legs out to the side. His feet are bare, which makes the moment suddenly more intimate, and as I watch, he grabs a stray fork off the table and scratches underneath the ankle monitor.
“Do I smell coffee?” he asks.
I get up, refilling my mug and pouring him one. “Do you still take it black?”
“Like my heart.”
I start to shake my head, then stop as the coffee sloshes over the rims of our mugs. Pat does not have a black heart. In fact, I think he might be the sweetest person I know.
My favorite kind of sweet too. He’s not the cloying kind that makes your teeth ache, but more like the dark chocolate sprinkled with salt or with a hint of pepper to give it bite. There is always push and pull with Pat. So much friction, a delicious amount of tension.
I love it. I’ve always loved it.
“You have the furthest thing from a black heart.” I set the coffee down in front of him.
Pat puts a hand over his chest. “Aw. And to think—I thought you hated me.”
“You know I could never hate you. I married you, didn’t I?”
That million-watt smile of his returns. I wish he’d shift to something more energy efficient, like the stupid forty-watt bulbs that keep my house perpetually dungeon-like.