They’re good.
The scent of sweet apples with hints of spicy cinnamon replaces the burnt eggs, and then Sawyer is beside me, hesitation in her honey-hued irises.
“Hi,” she offers tentatively, wrapping her arms around her midsection.
The greeting is far too casual. And she’s not close enough.
I turn and wrap my woman in my arms, engulfing her completely.
She blows out a heavy, relieved sigh on contact, then goes soft as she gives me more of her weight, melting into the embrace.
With a kiss to the top of her head, I ask, “You and Merce had a chance to talk?”
I want to know for certain she’s okay, that they’re okay. That together, we’re on a path of healing.
She nods, nibbling on her plump lower lip.
God, she’s got the prettiest eyes. Even with all her makeup wiped off and the puffiness that hints at the rough night she endured, she’s stunning. I want to get lost in those warm brown pools of honey for all the rest of my days.
“Mercer and I talked. I had a productive conversation with Tytus this morning, too. So assuming you and I are okay…”
She trails off, head lowering a little, letting the unspoken question linger between us.
Part of me wants to assure her that we’re fine. That I understand why she did what she did and that I’m willing to forgive and move on.
But I owe it to myself to advocate for what I need.
A private conversation. A gentle but firm reckoning. The assurance that what’s gone on over the last few weeks will never happen again.
I press my lips to the crown of her head, inhaling the scent of my three-in-one shampoo.
Humming, I savor the scent. I love that she smells like me.
Pulling back so she can see my face, I say, “You and I are far from okay.”
Her eyes widen and her mouth drops open a little.
“We’re not okay, but we will be,” I go on quickly to ease her distress. “I fully intend to hear you out, but I deserve the opportunity to say my piece, too. You and I will have a conversation, honey. You owe me that much.” I nod toward the table. “Let’s eat first.”
She presses her lips together, contrition clear in the pull of her eyebrows and in the uneasiness that wasn’t there before.
I can’t sugarcoat what’s ahead for us. We won’t truly be okay until we have our turn to talk.
But I don’t want her feeling worse when she’s already low.
“Here.” I work my arms out of my flannel shirt and hold it out for her. “It’s freezing outside, and the house is drafty. You can’t be walking around in just an old T-shirt.”
I don’t bother mentioning that it’s Mercer’s old T-shirt she’s wearing. She and Tytus both appear to be wearing borrowed clothes.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, turning slowly and slipping her arms into it.
We’re not okay yet. But we will be.
“Go sit,” I encourage.
She does, selecting a seat at the far side of the table next to Tytus.
I make a mental note to dig out a few more clothing options for him. He’s broader and taller than Merce, so while the T-shirt and sweats he’s sporting mostly fit him, I suspect he’d be a hell of a lot more comfortable in my clothes.
