Page 92 of Love Always

Leveraging his weight with his arms behind him, he lowers himself in, his chest muscles move smoothly under twinkle lights. I slide the miniature barn door closed and slip the bolt so we won’t be disturbed.

“Isn’t this for guests too?”

“Not right now.”

I never wear a bikini—with my hips and breasts, I’m too self-conscious. But I own one and as I step out of my jeans and sweater, I stand under the lights so he can see me. All of me. In a little red bikini.

Later, when the bikini is draped over a chair and I’m nestled in the crock of his arm, his lips now warm to the touch, his dark eyes glazed from sex, he slowly leans his head back and makes the statement I knew he would. It isn’t a question. He isn’t waiting for me to ask him. He’s just stating the obvious.

“You need to tell his grandparents.” He raises his head and kisses me. “Cory is an amazing little boy. More adults in his life who love him is a good thing.”

Drawing my legs up, I raise my hand and link my fingers with his. “I know, but I’m scared. Scared they won’t like me, won’t accept him. Or that maybe they will and go overboard and they’ll be another family I’ll have to deal with. I feel like I just got this one back.”

A wet, hot hand cups my chin. “Love is infinite. There’s not a certain amount of love. You will have to deal with them. And it will be messy sometimes, but it will be worth it. I’m sure.”

“But how do I tell them?”

“You just will. A story about love is always a good thing.”

He kisses me again and his lips are warm, dark. His rough hand on my necks lides down to my shoulders. My skin is so sensitive from the hot water, his every touch is electric. I know the same is true for him. I lay my hands on his chest and drag one across each pectoral. His eyes cloud again. Ravenous, he takes me one more time.

΅

It’s three days before Thanksgiving and I’m a wreck. We’re standing outside on the porch of the Pratchetts' estate and I’ve just pressed the bell. It is a sprawling compound set in the hills above Saxton’s Bay. There used to be a short cut, a deer trail that linked the edge of their seventy-acre spread to Echo Bay. It opened up in the parking lot behind the strip of stores on Main street. Even though the drive is the longer way around it still only takes ten minutes.

The house is a large, well-maintained three-story farmhouse, some sections red brick, the other white clapboard. Dark green shutters frame every window. Three wide covered porches mark each entrance: the front, the back, and the side yard. Just visible, with a stretch of pristine snow blanketing the half acre between them, is the cottage. It used to be Andy Pratchett’s home office.

Chimes sound inside and a few minutes later there’s footsteps on the threshold. Mateus’s hand is at the small of my back, gentle pressure stating, I’m right here.

Audrey Pratchett stands in the doorway, sees it’s me, and her eyes flit to Mateus, who’s holding Cory in his arms.

“Yes?”

“I have something to say.”

“Yes.”

“It has to do with Kenny.”

At this she stares at Cory, then really sees him. There’s recognition there and what I am about to say doesn’t need to be said. She opens her mouth in a small cry to her husband. “Andy!”

Andy Pratchett is slightly taller than his wife and they are both about my height. They bustle around, lifting a newspaper here, moving a TV tray. I’ve brought a gallon bag of Lego for Cory and he squats down to play by the fireplace. Andy Pratchett brings us each some hot cider.

“I’d offer you something else, but we’re a dry house,” he says by way of explanation.

Mateus introduces himself and they clearly know the entire story of what happened last week. She’s a judge and he’s a probate attorney and this is a small town.

Slowly, with fingers clenched around tissues I’ve stuffed in a pocket, I tell them the story of their son and their grandson. It is simultaneously so much easier and harder than I thought it would be. Easy because Mateus was right: a story about love is always a good thing—and hard because I realize with every word how I should have done this a long time ago.

It also turns out to be a much longer visit than I anticipated. There are photo albums to look through, and tears, and more cider. A picture on the mantle of Kenny about Cory’s age is a story of twins separated by time. Same blond hair, same blue eyes, same dimple on one cheek. When Mateus puts his arm around Audrey I want to cry. When Andy shakes Cory’s hand three times in a row and Cory laughs, I do cry.

I use the bathroom off the kitchen to splash water on my face. When I step back into the kitchen, Audrey meets me with a glass of water. She’s blonde and as trim as her short haircut, with freckles across her nose. It’s hard to imagine her in judge’s robes.

“You know, wasn’t Kevin Barr one of your classmates too? Did you know him?”

I grip the glass. Be direct. “Yes. He’s threatened to file papers asking for a paternity test.”

“I thought so,” she says and takes my arm.