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Or was that just what you wanted when we were younger?

By the time I’m walking into Easton’s house, eager to change out of my dress and sandals and into my pajamas, exhaustion threatens to overtake me. This week has been mentally demanding, and I think it’s finally catching up to me. We leave for the camping trip tomorrow, so I’d love to feel more rested.

And even though camping with my family proves to be a lot of work and requires energy too, I think it might be just what I need—to unplug and unwind for a few days, far away from responsibility.

Perhaps my mother is right about making time for that.

As a thought about packing occurs to me, I turn around to say something to Easton because I thought he was right behind me. Instead, he’s only just climbing the porch steps with a stack of books in his arms.

“Uh, did you just pull those out of thin air, or…”

“My truck,” he finishes for me, moving toward the living room and setting the books on the coffee table. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of my mom and Owen, but I’ve sort of been keeping Nora’s shop in business for the past few weeks.”

My heart starts to pound. “Are these all about taking care of the baby?”

He nods. “Mostly. So you don’t need to stress, okay? Whenever you have time, I can catch you up. I’ve been reading during breaks at work.”

“Easton…”

He heads into the kitchen, grabs a glass from the cupboard, and fills it from the dispenser on the fridge. “Yeah?”

“You can’t just drop something like that on me like it’s not a big deal.”

When he turns to face me, there’s an edge to his gaze. “Why not? So you can argue with me yet again about how I’m doing too much?” He shakes his head at me. “No thanks.” Tossing his hat on the counter, he diverts his gaze from me. “Look, it’s late. I’m tired, and I’m sure you are too. We still need to pack for the trip tomorrow, so let’s just get that done and get some rest, all right?”

He doesn’t give me the option of replying because in the next breath, he walks into the garage attached to the house, leaving me alone.

As I pack, I stew on what he said.

He thinks I just want to argue with him about everything?

Uh, Lennon. Newsflash. You do, sweetie.

Oh, shut up, subconscious. No one asked you.

But as I think about all of Easton’s actions since we got married, in addition to what his mom revealed to me tonight, my first inclination is to start an argument.

So that’s what I decide to do, hormones and ten years of being in the dark leading the way.

I slam the door open to the garage, making Easton jump as he spins around to face me, parts to a tent poised in his hands.

“What the fuck, Lennon?” His gaze dips down my body as he drops them to the garage floor. “Are you okay?”

“No. I’m not.”

“Okay…”

“Prom night,” I say, watching as his face transforms with reluctant understanding.

“What about it?”

“Why didn’t you tell me that you wanted to go with me?”

His eyes narrow before recognition dawns. “That’s what my mom told you tonight?”

“Yes, okay. She told me you came to my house because you wanted to take me to prom. Is that true?”

We stand there in a staring contest, neither of us blinking. Finally, his throat works. “Yes.”