Page 208 of Spicy Ever After
“I-I’m still your favorite person?”
I set down my half-eaten pizza and grab her hand. “Hell, fucking, yes.”
She wipes her mouth with her free hand, eyes searching mine. “Are you still mad?”
The knot of tension in my chest—this residual fear that she’ll disappear on me again—gives.
“No.” I shake my head hard. “I just don’t want to lose you.”
I might be able to survive losing the farm, but I don’t want to think about facing that future without her.
The joy I feel just watching her eat a slice of pizza? It’s a hell of a coping mechanism.
“No chance. You’re stuck with me.” She leans in, kisses me hard on the mouth, and pulls back before I can grab her and take it further. “I love you, Beck.”
And hearing that? That will never get old.
“I love you, too. Like crazy love.”
I expect the admission to make her smile, but she studies me instead.
“You don’t look as happy as I feel.”
Wincing, I settle a hand on her knee. “Hattie, honey, that’s got nothing to do with you and everything to do with this.” I wave my other hand to indicate the farm and how my career and calling are about to go up in smoke.
“I don’t think you should sell the farm,” she says softly.
I sigh, then pick up another slice to stall. I offer it to her before taking one for myself.
But even around a mouthful, Hattie has plenty to say. “You’re not happy now just thinking about selling,” she says, all certainty. “You’ll be even less happy if you do it.”
I snort. She has a point. But what else can I do?
“You’re right.” I admit. “I don’t think I’ll ever be happy about it.”
She holds my gaze for a long moment. She knows what I’m up against, and I can tell it hurts her to see me struggle over it.
I squeeze her knee. “You get it.” I clear my throat. “That means a lot. I’m glad you’re with me.”
“I’m glad I’m here too. I’m sorry I went away when things were so hard for you.” Now it’s her turn to wince. “Thinking about that makes me feel awful.”
I shake my head and let my touch travel beneath her knee. “You’re back. That’s all that matters.”
Guilt still hangs on her shoulders, so I give her leg a gentle squeeze, lean in, and press a hard kiss to her mouth.
When I pull back, she’s blinking like a flash bulb just popped. Like my kiss cleared her cookies.
Good.
“Enough about the farm. Tell me everything about these career plans.”
So she does.
She tells me about the mornings spent in career counseling, the assessments she took that confirmed things she knew instinctively about herself. That her focus and productivity are better later in the day. That the clear, concrete, step-by-step instructions on a sewing pattern are both centering and invigorating for her. That the more control she has over her environment, the more creative she is.
She tells me—with a sense of triumph in her voice—how liberating these sessions were. How they gave her practical recommendations like prioritizing her creativity and using supports for her executive functioning. Outsourcing whenever she can. How they normalized traits like not being a morning person. Like doing things differently from other people.
And how that healed some old wounds in her.
