“So he went to therapy?”
“For years,” Anna says. “The team set him up with someone, and it truly changed his life. It’s why he was committed to making sureyouwere seeing a therapist once you moved to the States. Because he knows it works.”
I lean back into the couch cushions, one hand rubbing up and down Fiona’s back. “When I was little, he told me he had special powers,” I say. “That the hits didn’t hurt him—like he was some kind of superhero.”
“That sounds like something he would say,” she says. “He’s only ever wanted to protect you.”
I breathe out a long sigh. “I know. That’s what makes it easier for me to forgive him for how boneheaded he’s being right now.”
She gives me a commiserating look. “Did he try to make you talk to the Canadian teacher he found?”
“He all but called him for me.” In my arms, Fiona wiggles, arching her back as she stretches and lets out the cutest tiny baby grunt. “Should I lay her down?” I ask Anna.
“You can try, but she’ll probably wake up if you do.” She stands. “You keep her. I’ll take the girls up and put them to bed.”
“Are you sure? I was going to do it to give you a break.”
“Youaregiving me a break. And giving Poppy and Olive some much needed Mommy time. What do you say, girls?” Anna says to her two oldest daughters. “You want to do bedtime with me tonight?”
They immediately jump up and cheer, clearly thrilled with the idea.
While the three of them are upstairs, I pull out my phone and take a selfie, the top of Fiona’s head just visible at the bottom of the photo.
I send it to Carter, a pulse of nerves pushing through me as I do.
If not for the kiss this morning, I might not have had the courage to send it. A text, yes—but not a selfie.
That kiss.I’ve replayed it in my mind at least a thousand times, and it makes my skin prickle with awareness every single time. Carter didn’t just kiss me—he kissed me like I belong to him. Like there was no possible way he could pull out of the drivewaywithoutkissing me.
My phone vibrates beside me, and I grab it, my heart already pounding in anticipation.
Carter has hearted the photo, then a message pops up.
Carter
You’re beautiful.
I close my eyes, resisting the urge to kick my feet like a middle schooler getting her first text from a boy she likes.
I heart Carter’s message, then switch over to Instagram, trusting the Jaguars’ social media crew has posted pictures of the team boarding the airplane. Sure enough, a post went up this morning. It doesn’t include photos of every player, but it’s my lucky day because there’s a great shot of Carter, sunglasses on, looking serious and sexy and perfectly delicious.
I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about the fact that less than an hour before this photo was taken, he was pinning me against the wall in our kitchen, kissing me senseless.
While I wait for Anna, I fall into a rabbit hole of Jaguars’ social media. I skip the highlights of past games—I’m not quite ready for those—but I screenshot photos of my husband with carefree abandon and save them to my phone. When Anna comes downstairs, she leans over the back of the couch and peers at my screen.
“Come on,” she says. “Seriously? He’s your husband. Just have him text you a selfie.”
“But these shots are so good,” I say. “Their social media people are great at their jobs.” I scroll back up to an earlier post. “Look at this one of Miles. It’s such a good picture of him.” I hold out my phone, and she leans in to look, but she doesn’t seem all that impressed.
“I mean, sure. It’s a good photo,” she says. “But wouldn’t you rather look at the photos you don’t have to share with the rest of the world?”
I look back at my phone, noticing the thousands of likes and comments each of the posts I’m looking at have gotten. So many people seeing the same photos, probablyadmiringthe same photos. I guess I see Anna’s point.
Fiona lets out a little whimper, and Anna circles the couch, coming around to gently scoop her out of my arms.
“She’s been a little squirmy the last few minutes,” I say, and Anna nods, fighting a yawn. “She probably needs to eat again.” She sits down on the opposite end of the couch and takes a minute to get Fiona situated for breastfeeding.
I stand and retrieve Anna’s giant water cup from the kitchen, refilling it with ice and fresh water, then I carry it back to her. She always gets thirsty when she’s nursing.
