“Mom, here’s your coffee. Dad, this one is yours,” Paige returns with Junie on her hip.
“Thanks.” Josie tries to hold Juniper, but she clings to Paige.
“We’re going upstairs. I’m going to paint her nails.”
“Wait, is that safe?” I ask.
“Yes, Nick checked this baby polish I found. Said it’s fine.”
Nick.He’s around to make sure the babies are okay.
Josie drinks her coffee, one-handed, cradling our grandson. For over twenty years, I’ve been married to this woman. She still makes me stupid. She takes a sip, and a drop of coffee stays on her lower lip. She catches it with her tongue, and I forget about the band, the show, the crossroads, the empty seats. These are the things that are real. My wife’s lower lip. My grandson playing with his grandma’s hair. The coffee going cold because I don’t want to move.
Later, we’ll talk about everyone coming to town. She’ll be happy. I know she misses Katelyn and Jenna and wishes they’d move back to Beaumont.
Truth is, I miss everyone too.
FIVE
Josie is at the stove making eggs when I come downstairs. She’s barefoot, hair still wet from the shower, and wearing another of my old flannels. She looks over her shoulder, her eyes moving up and down my body with no shame, as I walk in. A lesser man would feel used and abused by his wife. I am not said man.
I don’t say good morning. I cross the kitchen and put my hands on her hips from behind. She leans back into me, spatula still in her hand, and I press my mouth to the side of her neck where her hair has kept her skin damp. She smells like gardenias and warm cotton. I drag my lips up behind her ear. She tilts her head to give me more room as her body sags against mine. My wife moans and the sound goes right to my dick. I flex my hips, reminding her that after all these years, she can do this to me with the simplest of acts.
“The eggs are going to burn,” she says. Her voice is low, seductive.
“Where’s Paige?”
“At school.”
“Let the eggs burn.” I don’t give two shits about the eggs, toast, or whatever else may burn. I only care about her, the way she makes me feel, and how I can please her.
The spatula clatters onto the counter as she turns around in my arms. She hooks her fingers into the front of my shirt and pulls me down. Her mouth opens under mine and I taste the same minty toothpaste we’ve used since we moved in together and the coffee, she’s already been drinking. I shift us to the side, away from the stove and push her back against the counter, her hips hit the edge. She makes a sound against my teeth, low and throaty, and her hands slide up my chest to my shoulders. Her nails dig in through the cotton. I grip her waist harder. She arches into me. The flannel slips off one shoulder, and I follow it with my mouth, kissing the bare skin, the strap of her tank top, the curve where her neck meets her collarbone. Her fingers twist into my hair. She pulls.
This. . . this is worth staying home and putting my aging career on the backburner. Being with my wife, basking in her presence, and being present for my kids and grandchildren is enough.
“Liam.” My name comes out rough. “It’s morning.”
“I’m aware.”
“The stove is on.”
I lean over and turn the burner off without looking. She laughs against my mouth. I feel it vibrate through her chest into mine. She pushes me back with both palms flat on my sternum.
“Go sit down,” she says. Her cheeks are flushed and her lips are slightly swollen. I rub my thumb over them and then kiss her again.
“I love you.”
“I love you,” she says right back.
I don’t sit down. I pour a cup of coffee, lean against the counter beside her while she turns the burner back on andfinishes the eggs. She slides them onto a plate and sets it in front of me at the island. I sit down.
“I’m going to do the show.”
She turns from the sink. Her mouth pulls into the smile. It’s the one she uses when she knows she’s right about something but doesn’t want to gloat. It’s fine, she can gloat. She knows me better than I know myself.
“Good,” she says. “Now eat your eggs before they get cold.”
“That’s all you have to say?”
