Page 142 of When the Smoke Clears

A chance encounter at the grocery store.

Pulling up to the same stoplight at the same time.

Fitz and Jamie parked my Bronco here when I texted to tell them we wouldn’t be coming back for a while. I’m shocked no one has mentioned seeing me driving around town. Granted, we’re usually in Everleigh’s truck because we’re hauling stuff back for the barndo.

Most days are good days. Scratch that. Most days are fabulous days. But some days, I find Everleigh staring at a wall or something random—like this morning, it’s her cup of coffee—and I know she’s still struggling to find herself again.

“Do you ever think I should have taken you to Baltimore? Maybe not for the job, but maybe to visit the second most brilliant psychiatrist to help you find your feet again?” I ask, buttering our toast and setting it on two plates along with sliced kiwi and hard-boiled eggs.

She gives me a soft smile when I set the plate in front of her. Eighty percent of the interior is finished, but the kitchen table is just a card table and chairs. We want to make our own table out of reclaimed wood, but we haven’t gotten around to it.

“I feel . . .” She takes a bite of kiwi and chews it slowly. “Selfish. I feel like I have a lot to offer, and I’m just hiding out in this beautiful home with the world’s sexiest man, and it’s wonderful. Perfect, really. But sometimes, I feel selfish for not offering my knowledge, my expertise, to help others.”

“Maybe it’s time to get back on the horse.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t want to go back to the clinic here. And I don’t want to move. Not after we’ve done all of this work. And yeah, I sometimes wonder if I was arrogant and stupid to think that I could get through this with a little mind over matter and an insane amount of sex.”

I grin because I’m not even a little sorry about the insane amount of sex.

“I don’t know,” she says before sipping her coffee. “Maybe I should keep working on gaming therapy. But it’s hard to do without funds and access to proper testing. I suppose I could write books. Start a YouTube channel? TED Talks? Something useful, until . . .” She sets her mug on the table and sighs.

My phone screen illuminates. “Well, look at this.” I hold up my phone so she can see the message and photo from Fitz.

Aster Samantha Fitzgerald 6 lbs 9 oz and perfect

Everleigh cups a hand over her mouth, and tears fill her eyes as she stares at the photo of Jamie in a hospital gown holding their newborn baby girl. “We have to go see them.”

I laugh, setting my phone down. “They think we’re in Florida.”

“But we’re not.” She scoots back in her chair, abandoning her breakfast to make a beeline for the bedroom.

“So we’re just going to show up unannounced?” I ask, following her to the bedroom.

“Yes. It’s called visiting hours.” She removes her white robe and pulls on a pair of jeans. “Oh, we need to get a gift. And flowers. We can’t show up empty-handed. What do you think about getting something for Fitz too?”

“Baby, if we visit, then this all ends. We’ll have to engage with the real world again. Our friends won’t let us hole up in our barn, no jobs, no responsibilities.”

She pulls on a black sweater. “Fine. Whatever. But we’re going to see that baby.”

“If I knew a baby would bring you this much joy . . .”

She snaps her head up while pulling on socks. “What?”

“Nothing.” I change out of my old T-shirt into a newer one, something softer for Aster Samantha Fitzgerald, six pounds, nine ounces of pure perfection.

“Finish what you were going to say.” Everleigh steps into my personal space the second I turn from the closet.

“It was a figure of speech. There was nothing to finish.”

She folds her hands behind her back. I haven’t seen her fold them in front since we left Key West. Is Dr. Reichart gone for good?

I crack a smile and shake my head, glancing past her to the window for a beat. “I’m just going to throw this out there. You can ignore it if you want, and I won’t mention it again. It’s just a thought. Speculation of sorts.” I return my gaze to her. “We’d make beautiful babies.”

She blinks. That’s all I get.

“I mean”—I shrug like I don’t care, because she’s freaking me out with her silence—“you’re between jobs. And I can do whatever too. I’m allergic to cats, so I suppose a dog would be okay if you’d rather—”

She throws her arms around my neck and pulls me to her lips for a hungry kiss. I think it’s a good sign, but this woman has been hard to read lately, so I don’t want to assume anything.