“Okay,” she says. She raises her glass. “To the most fucked-up family in Washington.”
Jamie snorts. “I think there’s competition for that title.”
“Please. We’re winning by a mile.” Kate clinks her glass against my water, then against the one the waiter has just set in front of Jamie. “To new beginnings. And to my future niece, who is going to have the most interesting ‘how my parents met’ story in the history of the world.”
“God.” Jamie’s hand moves to his belly. “We’re going to have to tell her someday, aren’t we?”
“Maybe leave out some of the details,” I suggest. “We’ll tell her we met at a coffee shop.”
“No one will believe that.”
“No,” Kate agrees cheerfully. “But it’ll be fun to watch you try.”
Jamie laughs. We order lunch. Kate and Jamie discover a shared hatred of a cable news host I’ve always found inoffensive, and spend ten minutes dissecting his interview technique.
When we finally leave, stepping out into the sunlight, there are photographers waiting on the sidewalk. Kate peels off with a wave and a promise to call later. Jamie and I stand together, his hand in mine, facing the cameras.
“Mr. Crane! Jamie! Can you tell us—”
“We’ve said everything we’re going to say for now.” I keep my voice pleasant, my grip on Jamie’s hand firm. “We’re going home.”
“Home where? Are you living together?”
“Have a good afternoon.”
I guide Jamie toward the waiting car, keeping my body between him and the most aggressive photographers. In the car, Jamie slumps against the seat with a sigh.
“That was a lot.”
“It was.”
“Your sister is lovely.”
“She likes you.”
The car pulls away from the curb. Through the tinted windows, I watch the photographers recede and the restaurant disappear, but the only thing that is on my mind is Jamie’s honey and citrus scent, as sweet and intoxicating as the day that I met him.
23. Jamie
The last time I was at the cabin, I wasn't seeing much of anything clearly. The heat had me half-delirious within hours of arriving, and everything from those days exists in my memory as fragments, mostly Carter's hands, Carter's voice, the desperate relief of his body inside mine.
I remember the fight.
"I haven’t had time to get it aired out," Carter says from behind me. He's carrying our bags, plural, because he refused to let me lift anything heavier than a water bottle. "Everything has happened so fast."
“That’s fine. I can open windows. Are you going to let me do that? Or are those too heavy too?”
“Funny.” He sets the bags down by the couch.
I smile. “It’s perfect. We needed time. Away from everything."
He moves past me toward the kitchen. "Are you hungry? I can make something."
He's pulling out a cutting board, a knife, vegetables from one of the bags. His movements are easy, confident. This is familiar territory for him. "Any requests? Dietary restrictions I should know about?"
"The baby hates tomatoes. Which is inconvenient, because I used to love them." I rest my hand on my stomach, feeling the now-familiar pressure of her body against my palm. "Other than that, I'll eat anything that doesn't make me nauseous."
"What makes you nauseous?"
