Laughter threads through me. “Is it everything you’ve ever wanted in a chair?”
“My God, this is bloody fantastic. Give me a book, and I’ll never leave.”
When he slides open the cover, I have my phone ready and snap a pic.
“I can only presume that you’re going to file that under future blackmail material?”
“It’s like you know me so well already.”
We move along, choosing a different chair, a simple one that’s durable too.
We head to the nearest clerk at the checkout, handing over the tags for the items. “Do you want home delivery for these?” he asks.
“Absolutely,” Liam says.
“And would you like assembly?”
Liam says yes, but I override him. “He doesn’t.”
He shoots me a look. “I can put a dog’s leg back together, but I can’t assemble a chair from instructions. And see, I’m not afraid to ask for help when I need it.”
I grin at his honesty, but assure him, “I want to do it. It’s part of the housewarming gift. Just another perk of living next door to a carpenter goddess.”
“Thank you. That would be amazing,” he says to me, then finishes with the clerk. He also insists on buying my pillows and trash can, and I let him.
As he grabs the bag of pillows, my stomach rumbles. Liam doesn’t pretend he doesn’t hear, which seems in keeping with his straightforward nature. “You should let me feed you,” he says.
“I won’t object to that.” We duck into the store café, where I grab a salad, he grabs a sandwich, and we find a table next to a family. The mom is offering a meatball to the little blonde toddler across from her, the girl opening her mouth wide as the mom airplanes the food into it. The dad—or so I assume—plates a scoop of mashed potatoes for the young boy across from him. Like a seagull, the boy dips a fork in, declares yum, and his dad laughs.
They look tired, but happy.
Across from me, Liam looks contemplative as he takes a bite of his sandwich, studying me as he chews. “So, at the risk of being blunt—is Wednesday’s father dead? Did he pass away? Is he out of the picture?”
I put down my fork and wipe the napkin across my mouth. “You are straightforward, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I try to be. Does that bother you?”
I shake my head. “I like it. Most people aren’t.”
“Why tiptoe when you can be blunt? As I like to say.”
“Words to live by,” I agree. I set my hands on the table, thinking about where to begin the story. It’s not one I’m ashamed of. It’s my own, and there’s no reason not to tell him.
“Wednesday was an oopsie with my college boyfriend on graduation night. Things were sort of petering out with us, but then I found out I was pregnant. And so, we got married, because that’s what you do. We stayed together for a while, but it was mostly out of obligation.”
I wish things had been different with Vince, but it was never really in the cards. He and I tried; we definitely tried. But there was no spark, no deep, soulful connection. We were partners in parenting, and partners in navigating life. We weren’t partners in love.
“A few years ago, we made plans to amicably separate. He met someone else almost immediately and moved to Texas to marry her. He’s not terribly involved with Wednesday—just sees her during the summers.” I smile, and it’s genuine. I want my daughter to spend time with her father. “He’s a good man who loves his kid. Just not the right man for me, and I wasn’t right for him.”
He smiles softly. “It’s kind of amazing that you say that.”
I snort. “Not really.”
“Lovely sound of derision, by the way.”
“Thanks. I’ve been working on it for years, hoping someone would notice.”
“Achievement unlocked.” Then he returns to his point. “It’s amazing because so many people talk about their ex like they’re the worst person in the universe. ‘He was a total twat.’ ‘He didn’t appreciate me.’ ‘She was borderline insane.’ ‘She clung to me like static to laundry,’” he says, and I laugh at the last one. “But it takes a lot to be honest and admit that you weren’t right for each other.”
“We weren’t, and trust me, I wish we had been. I wish it had been love, hearts, and lots of banging on the kitchen counter like my friend Alva and her hubs.”
He laughs deeply and wiggles his brow. “So your friend is a kitchen fucker?”
It’s my turn to crack up. “Yes. Or at least she likes to tell me about all the places she and Marcos get it on. Like the staircase, or the bathroom sink, or the storage trunk in the attic.”
He arches one brow. “Storage trunk in the attic?”
“Yeah, I don’t quite get that one either. I decided not to ask.”
