I’d made up my mind. When I got home, I was going to say yes to Jack Leroy.
TWENTY-SIX
JACK
NOVEMBER
“I don’t thinkthere’s anything left, sweetie,” Mara said to Hazel. Gabi’d brought Mara home from the hospital about an hour earlier. I was hitting the easy button and letting the kids watch a movie.
Mara was trying to breastfeed, and I say ‘trying’ because it wasn’t going well.
“You need a snack, Mar?” I offered.
Mara ignored that. “I think I’m all dried up from the medicines.”
Hazel was fussing in between attempts. “I’m sorry, baby,” Mara tried as Hazel swatted at her.
Eventually, Hazel gave up and Mara pulled her up to her shoulder as she fussed. She bounced Hazel and tried to comfort her with hushed words, but it wasn’t helping.
Then I saw it, the thing I feared. A tear streaked down Mara’s cheek, her emotional dam about to burst.
What the fuck was I supposed to do? I knew what to do when my kids cried, or at least I tried. I knew why Mara was frustrated and I hated that I couldn’t make it better. She had tobe devastated. She’d said that thing about letting her kids choose when they were done, but this time, the choice had been taken from them. I had to figure out some way to help.
“I’ll get you both a snack,” I said, rising from the couch.
“Don’t.” Mara’s dark voice surprised me.
“O . . . kay,” I said, wondering what the fuck I did wrong. More tears streaked down Mara’s cheeks, her wet lashes splayed out on them. Maybe it wasn’t about me at all.
I stepped to stand next to her, then knelt in front of her. Maybe if we were closer, she’d be comfortable talking to me. I was right.
“I’m afraid to eat. I don’t want to react again.”
I squeezed her knee. “Crackers?”
Mara opened her eyes and held back more tears. “Okay.”
I nodded and rose, fixing a kids bowl of crackers for Hazel and a plate for Mara. Instead of sitting on the other end of the couch, I sat back down next to them, so close our outer thighs touched. I didn’t really know what to say, so I just sat with the cracker plate in my lap. After Mara ate a couple and Hazel dozed off on her shoulder, a warm hand met mine.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
I laced my fingers with hers, running my thumb over her hand. “Anytime.”
The kids werein bed and Mara was in the shower while I made her a grilled cheese. After we got the kids settled, I managed to get her to admit she was hungry, and she decided the sandwich was one of the least offensive things she could eat.
Mara shuffled into the kitchen in bare feet, damp hair, and sweats. “Smells good.”
I flicked my head toward the bar. “Sit.”
“Back to monosyllabic Jack,” she joked.
I rolled my eyes. “Brat.”
She smirked. “If I recall correctly, you were the brat.”
I pulled the sandwiches off the stove and turned it off, plated them, and slide her plate in front of her. I struggled to find my words. “I . . . am not sure how to feel about what we did that night.”
Mara worked around her bite. “In what way?”
