Addie lowered her voice, as if she were doing the voice-over for amovie trailer. “Two people, trapped together in a blinding snowstorm.”
“Now, they’re forced to confront the past that tore them apart as well as their burgeoning lust,” Sky managed in an equally deep tone before dissolving into another fit of laughter.
I could feel Teddy’s gaze burning into the side of my face, but I refused to look at him. Not when my cheeks were flaming and our daughters were basically writing erotic fan fiction about their parents’ reunion.
“We’re hanging up now,” I announced, reaching toward the screen with my free hand.
“We’ll stop, we’ll stop,” Addie pleaded through her laughter. “It’s just really good to see you two together again.”
“Jesus, we’re capable of being friendly without it having to mean anything,” I protested before catching myself.
Friendly.
God, I hated that word. Hated how it reduced whatever this was—this electricity, this pull, this complicated mess of want and hurt and history—to something safe and sanitized.
We weren’t friendly. Friendly was what you were with your neighbor. Your coworker. Hell, even the barista who remembered your coffee order. Friendly didn’t grip the backs of your thighs and leave marks on your throat.
But admitting that to our daughters—admitting it to myself—felt like stepping off a cliff with no guarantee of a soft landing.
“Right,” he said quietly, his voice carefully neutral. “Friendly.”
“Well, whatever you want to call it, there’s nothing like a blizzard to make you realize you never stopped loving each other. Okay, we love you. Bye!” Sky rushed to say, ending the call before either of us could respond.
The silence that followed felt deafening. Teddy released my hand and pushed back from the table, leaving me alone and painfully aware that I’d done it once again.
Because apparently, my superpower was taking any moment of connection we managed to build and blowing it to smithereens with my big mouth.
10
kelsey
I watchedTeddy retreat into himself, shoulders tensing as he stood and carried his empty plate to the sink. The easy banter from moments before evaporated, leaving behind the familiar chill that had defined most of our interactions toward the end of our marriage.
“Teddy—” I started, but he was already moving toward the living room and the little tree that couldn’t.
“Might as well get this done,” he said without looking back.
I forced myself to follow him, my bare feet silent on the hardwood. He’d already dragged the first box of ornaments closer to the tree and was stabbing his knife through the packing tape with more force than I would have used.
“You don’t have to help,” he muttered, ripping the box open and scattering packing peanuts across the floor. “I can handle it myself.”
Usually, I’d leave him to brood and find something to do on the opposite side of the house. Sometimes, I’d leave altogether under the guise of running errands, which was nothing more than an excuse to drive around, scream-singing angry rock songs until my throat was raw.
But this wasn’t my house, and I’d already made one attempt at driving in a blizzard. I wasn’t exactly keen on a repeat performance.
The need to impose some order on at least one part of the chaotic situation we’d found ourselves in was strong. When everything else spiraled out of control—our marriage, our son, our lives—I’d always retreated to what I could manage. Cleanliness. Organization. Decoration.
Control the controllable.
“I know you can.” I knelt beside him, reaching for the second box. “But I want to help.”
Teddy shot me a sidelong look. “You never could leave well enough alone.”
“Please.” I bumped his shoulder with mine, using a teasing tone to deflect from whatever was happening between us. “There’s not a single part of this tree that’s well enough, Riggs.”
He didn’t smile at my weak attempt at humor, but some of the tension left his shoulders. “Why’s it so important to you?”
“Because I miss?—”
