“Yesterday. When we came home from school, remember?”
Nonplussed, I frowned as I opened the door. I didn’t remember. Well, I remembered seeing Matty yesterday morning, but I didn’t remember any conversation about a space atlas.
“Peona.” Matty nodded his head at me in an efficient greeting, his use of the nickname inspiring a wave of nostalgia. I was pretty sure I’d never be able to look at him without seeing the toddler he used to be. Of course, since he was always wearing a vintage Star Wars T-shirt—no matter the time of day—it was difficult for me to see him as anything other than a big kid.
Matty pulled a large, hardbound book from under his arm and presented it to Jack. “Jack, the promised space atlas.”
Jack grabbed it from Matty, his eyes wide and excited. “Whoa! Thanks!”
The peculiar professor grinned at my son’s enthusiasm. “No problem at all.”
I stepped to the side and motioned with my hand. “Won’t you come in? I’m sure Jack would appreciate a tour of the atlas.”
Matty didn’t hesitate and quickly stepped into our apartment. “Sure, just for a bit. I don’t suppose you have any leftovers from dinner?”
“Oh good Lord! You are a food addict.”
“No, I’m a good food addict. And you make good food.”
I shut the door behind him and gave him an indulgent smile. “We had spare ribs, twice-baked potatoes, and broccoli for dinner. Help yourself to anything in the fridge.”
“Twice-baked potatoes!? Good God, woman.” His eyes bulged, he didn’t need to be told twice. Matty quickly shuffled by me and sprinted for the kitchen.
Meanwhile, Jack was already on the carpet in the living room, flipping through the massive pages of the atlas. “This is so cool.”
I heard the fridge open and close, the telltale sounds of jars and dishes rattling as he rummaged. “Are you sure I can have anything in here? Anything at all?” Matty called from the kitchen.
“Yes, help yourself.” My eyes snagged on a pile of mail I must’ve left forgotten on the coffee table yesterday. I frowned at it, feeling rising frustration at my increasing forgetfulness.
“Anything? Anything at all? Even the ca—”
“Go for it, but don’t make a mess in the kitchen. Use a paper plate,” I interrupted, responding absentmindedly, flipping through the mail and relieved when I found it all to be advertisements and credit card offers.
“Your kitchen is so clean, it sparkles,” Matty marveled, and I heard the fridge close. “How do you do that?”
Of course he hadn’t seen the kitchen yesterday. Yesterday it was a disaster deserving of a biohazard warning. I’d spent all day yesterday and this morning picking up, cleaning, and doing laundry. It was my only chance to get the place straightened up before my Tuesday night knitting group descended. It was my week to host.
Now I just had to keep it clean for the next week . . .
“What’s an alabeado?” Jack struggled to pronounce.
“Albedo,” I corrected as I stood and walked to the shredding bin. “It’s an attribute measurement, the reflective property of an object that isn’t a source of light. Right, Matty?”
“More or less,” Matty said as he shuffled back into the living room, his words garbled as he was obviously trying to talk over a mouthful of food.
I smirked as I lifted my eyes from the shredding, but then the smile fell away and a cold panic hit me in the chest when I saw what he was eating.
It was cake.
It was Ashley’s cake.
He was eating Ashley’s cake!
Jack must’ve looked up and noticed the contents of Matty’s plate as well, because he gasped loudly then said, “Ooooohhhh! You are in soooooo much trouble!”
CHAPTER 2
Dear Husband,
You are my home. Which is astounding, since I've never really had one before. I didn't even know the meaning before you walked into my life. You give me things I never even knew I was missing.
-Morgan
Letter
Iowa, USA
Married 4 years
Present Day
Fiona
The fire ants in my brain were back. My face must’ve communicated my despair because the look on Matty’s face and his rush of words were effusively apologetic. “Oh no. I am so sorry, I’m so, so sorry! You said anything in the fridge and I love coconut and . . . oh shit, this is fucking fantastic cake.”
“Oooooooohhhh! You cussed! He cussed!” Jack stood and bounced on his feet, pointing at Matty like I might need assistance deciphering who exactly had said the expletives.
“Ahhhh!” Matty’s face contorted with remorseful horror.
Jack’s eyes were wide and excited. “He said fu—”
“Don’t say it!” Matty and I cut him off in unison.
Jack clamped his mouth shut, looking thwarted and frustrated.
Matty groaned. “Sorry. I’m making a mess of things.” Then he turned on his heel and rushed back into the kitchen. “I’ll go put it back.”