“Yes.” I searched for something else to say, some topic to bridge the gap between us. Something that would make our conversation less like a bad first date. “She and Ned are going to Hawaii in January.”
He gave me an unreadable look. Nodded at DJ, sleeping in my arms. “Daisy in the car?”
“Yes. They fell asleep at Mom’s,” I said apologetically.
“I’ll get her.”
“Thanks.” He moved around me. Not touching. Even when we weren’t connecting, he was a dutiful dad. “Thank you for the flowers,” I added softly.
He stopped in the doorway. “I couldn’t find a vase.”
He’d jammed the bouquet into the pitcher I used for iced tea. I smiled, my heart unfurling like one of those roses. “That works.”
“You need to fix them to make them look better.” His gaze met mine. “You’re good at that.”
Was that what he thought? That I had to rearrange everything? “They look beautiful to me.”
He smiled a little. “Glad you like them.”
“I do.” Two simple words, like the echo of a promise.
He leaned his forearm on the doorway above my head. I felt a little flutter, a tingle of the old attraction. “I bought a bottle of wine, too.”
“Wine is good.” Wine made it easier to talk. To say yes.Yesto laughter and vulnerability, to love and letting go. I moistened my lips. “Sorry I wasn’t home for dinner.”
He leaned closer. He smelled good, warm and familiar, like fabric softener and sweat. Like John. “We can open it later.”
His gaze dropped to my mouth. The tingles spread. I raised my face for his kiss.
DJ mumbled and burrowed deeper into my neck.
John straightened, his hand dropping briefly to our son’s head. “Better get this little guy to bed.”
I swallowed my disappointment. “Aren’t you coming up?”
“As soon as I get Daisy.”
Daisy! In the car. I’d totally forgotten.
“That would be good. Great,” I said. “Thanks, honey.”
It took time to transfer the twins to their own beds, to strip off Daisy’s shoes and socks, to put DJ in a clean diaper, all without waking them up. I turned out the lights in the babies’ room and eased the door shut, still thinking of those roses.
John had always been better at actions than words. Maybe we didn’t have to talk, I thought. Maybe I could show him how I felt.
And maybe I was afraid of where our conversation could go.
“It’s not like I’m going to quit my job,”he’d said.
John was waiting in the hall. He stuck his hands in his pockets when he saw me. “You want that wine now?”
Yes. No. If we went downstairs, down to the crumbs on the counter and the bills by the door... Definitely no. Better to stay upstairs.
“Jo opened a bottle of wine with dinner,” I said. Keeping my voice low, so I wouldn’t wake the kids. “I probably shouldn’t drink any more tonight.” Casually, I walked toward our bedroom with its sturdy door lock and comfortable queen-size mattress. Hoping John would follow.
A load of unfolded clothes sat in the middle of our bed.
Okay. I could move the laundry basket to the floor. Or... We didn’t have to do it in bed. When we first bought the house, we’d made love on the living room floor. Under the Christmas tree. Even on the washing machine, once. Before the bills and routines, before the scars and stretch marks.
