“Of course, you focus on the nudity and not the political nuance,” she snaps. “Can I remind you that it ends with two queens surviving in a world of dicks and incest?”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “And one of them went crazy.”
“Don’t,” she warns sharply. “We do not bring up season eight. It doesn’t count.”
I take a sip of my beer.
“It aired,” I say.
“It was stupid and not based on a book,” she fires back.
“You know what?” I snap, throwing a hand up. “I cannot with you.”
I lean back into the couch and grab the remote again.
“The question still remains,” I say. “What do you want to watch?”
“Well,” Jess says thoughtfully, swirling the last of her wine, “considering the kids are with your dad…”
I narrow my eyes. “What does that have to do with anything?”
She rolls her eyes. “It means we don’t risk them walking in on bare asses.”
I snort. “They’ve seen you change.”
“That was an accident,” she says primly.
“So you wantGOT.”
She shrugs, finishing her wine. “We can fool around when the characters do.”
I pause.
“You wanna watch porn instead?” I ask my interest peeked.
She smiles slowly. “I thoughtGOTwasporn.”
I narrow my eyes, dragging my tongue across my upper teeth. “I cannot believe I asked my dad to take the boys so you could compare HBO to Pornhub.”
“He was happy to see them,” she says lightly.
I lean back, exhaling through my nose. “Yeah. He was.”
And that’s true.
I might’ve limited sleepovers when he moved in with Manuel. I didn’t love the idea at the time. I was… adjusting. Manuel, to his credit, has been surprisingly quiet about me and Jess. Especially for someone who once championed divorce like he did.
“How about this,” Jess says suddenly, setting her glass on the coffee table. “We look at resumes.”
“It’s date night,” I remind her.
“Fine,” she counters. “We look at resumes, then we go upstairs and fool around.”
I stare at her then sigh, hating that date night is being hijacked by work. But between Darren on leave, the day-to-day grind of running the company, and actually spending time as a family, there isn’t much extra space left in the calendar.
“Okay,” I say finally.
It takes us an hour. And at least four arguments.
