I notice. I know they notice. And both Beckett and I try to fill those gaps. We’ve intentionally sought out different hobbies for them, activities we can do as a family.
But… It’s not the same as just playing with kids your own age.
So when we start talking about rebuilding our lives, selling the house becomes part of the conversation. Not running away—just choosing something better. Somewhere lighter.
The upside is that both of our jobs can be done remotely now. We’re not tied to a place, or a postal code, or other people’s opinions.
We haven’t decided where we’ll land yet.
Another adventure, maybe. And for the first time in our marriage, we’re not building a life that looks good from the outside.
We’re building one that keeps our family safe—and actually fits.
The garage door rumbles open, and I freeze at the table, stylus hovering above my tablet.
For the record, Beckett and I learned—after the cruise—that we should not have been nearly as creative as we were. Or as… enthusiastic. According to Leo Keller, the licensed body piercer Beckett found here in town, there should have been no sexual activity—at all—for the first six weeks. Not even solo efforts.
So even though he’s come out of it… unscathed, he’s been given strict orders.
My poor,poor husband.
To be fair,Ihaven’t suffered. We’ve gotten very good at working around the rules. Resourceful. Inventive. Thorough.
And one of the best things to come out of all this is that we… talk. Like, before. During. After. And even in-between—when little ears aren’t around, that is.
Still…
I’m not complaining. Honestly. But?—
I am literally squirming in my chair right now.
There comes a point when a woman doesn’t just need or just want—she aches for the full, unapologetic version of herhusband. The ultimate connection. The kind that leaves her muscles complaining the next day.
And let’s be clear—pierced or not, Beckett’s unapologetic version has never disappointed.
But it’s been months—literally months. And we’ve both beensogood.
Today, the temporary jewelry is being swapped for the permanent fit. It’s the appointment I have circled in red on the kitchen calendar.
And if things go well—if Beckett gets the green light?—
The garage door makes that rumbling sound. I freeze.
Up. Up. Up. I hear the car pull in and then—down, down, down.
When I hear footsteps, I turn in my chair.
Beckett stands there for a beat, jacket still on, keys in his hand. His expression is unreadable.
Infuriating.
“Well?” I ask. My teeth catch my lower lip.
He says nothing. Just watches me.
Then—slowly—his mouth curves. That grin. The one that’s all confidence and promise.
My stomach does this little swoopy thing.
