“Yeah.” His voice cracks. He swallows hard, then forces the words out. “It was a kid, Meg, and that’s all I want to say.”
Tears burn in my eyes, and my stomach hurts.
He shakes his head. “And then—right after that—I had to go to something so…stupid. A noise complaint. I had to change my whole demeanor in the span of ten minutes before I got there.Pretend like everything was fine, it’s just another day.” His voice breaks. “And it wasn’t.”
My tears spill over, and an overwhelming ache pushes through me. I just hug him because I don’t know what words could possibly make this better.
I hold him tight, my tears soaking into his shirt while his fall hot against my temple.
And in this moment, standing in his kitchen with both of us breaking, I know this is part of the reality of loving him. Of the life we’ll have together. While I pray it won’t be often that we find ourselves here, crying over the dark side of the world he walks into every day, I know one thing for certain.
I’ll always be here for him when it is.
Chapter 6
Mason
It’s been a long week. By the time I pull into Megan’s parents’ driveway, I’m starving.
She texted me earlier:Don’t eat, I’m cooking tonight.
It made me smile, and also happy I didn’t have to pay for takeout or something like we usually do. Our wedding isn’t breaking the bank, but everything certainly is starting to add up.
I knock once out of habit, then let myself in. “Meg?”
“Down here!” her voice calls.
I head down the stairs into her space. She’s got the whole bottom floor to herself—cozy little living room, her classroom papers stacked on the coffee table, kitchen tucked in the corner. And there she is, standing at the stove, ponytail bouncing, spatula in hand, working the pan like she knows what she’s doing.
“Smells good,” I say, grinning as I drop my hat on the counter.
Her cheeks flush pink. “It’s chicken and rice. Nothing crazy, but…homemade.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” I tell her, stepping behind her and leaning down to kiss her temple. “I’d’ve been fine with a sandwich.”
“I wanted to,” she says. “I know you prefer homemade over anything else.” She smiles.
“You’re sweet,” I remind her with a quick peck on the cheek.
I sit at her little kitchen table while she fusses over the plates like she’s serving a five-star meal. She sets one in front of me, and I try to keep my face neutral. The chicken’s…darker than I expected, borderline black around the edges, and the rice has formed one solid mass instead of being separate grains. The peas look suspiciously glossy and soft, and for a second, I honestly thought it was guacamole.
Megan beams at me, proud as can be. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes shining, and there’s this nervous excitement radiating off her that makes me want to love whatever’s on this plate, no matter what it tastes like.
She slides into the chair beside me, reaching for my hand. “Ready?” she says, so hopeful it almost hurts.
I lace my fingers with hers and bow my head to pray. In the background of my words, I’m also praying that this food tastes better than it looks.
When we lift our heads, I cut into the chicken first. The knife scrapes a little louder than it should, and I try not to wince at the sound. I spear a bite-sized piece and chew slowly, carefully, my jaw working like I’m gnawing on a strip of leather. It’s dry, overcooked, and completely lacking flavor. I keep my face steady, willing my expression not to betray me, and reach for my drink to help wash it down.
Next, I go for the rice. The texture throws me off immediately—half mush, half gravel. A few grains crunch between my teeth. I glance at Megan, trying to be subtle, but she’s eating hers just fine, smiling like nothing’s wrong. Surely she knows rice isn’t supposed to crunch, right? Maybe she made two batches. Maybe I got the experimental one.
She looks up then, catching my eyes with that pretty, expectant grin that makes my heart twist in the best and worst way. “Well?” she asks.
I swallow hard, chasing it with more water. Hoping God forgives me for this lie, I smile, reaching over and rubbing her shoulder. “It’s great, sweetheart.”
Her shoulders drop in relief. “Good. I was so worried it wasn’t even going to compare to your mom’s.”
I try not to react but the only thing this meal and my mom’s have in common is the wordchicken.
