“Honey, I’m home!” I call, walking through the front door. I set my laptop bag and purse on the entryway table.
“In the office.” Declan’s voice carries through the house, along with the faint clink of metal.
When I get to the room he calls his office, he’s mid-set, squatting with a barbell along his back, holding what looks like a lot of heavy weight.
He smiles at me in the mirror in front of him, then racks the bar.
“Hey.” He steps to me and drops a kiss on my lips. “I thought you were going out with the girls.”
“I was, but Scarlett wasn’t feeling well, so we rescheduled.”
“Lucky me.” He scoops me up and I wrap my arms and legs around him. We kiss all the way to the kitchen, where he sets me on the counter. “What do you want for dinner?”
I love that he asks me the question, even though he is planning to eat one of his healthy pre-cooked meals that he’s been devouring five times a day since he started prepping for the season.
Training camp and the official start of team practices aren’t for another month, but all the guys have been getting together to work out and skate every day. I don’t think I truly appreciated how much time and effort goes into what he does. Not just during the season, but year-round.
“I don’t know. I’ll make myself a sandwich later or something.”
He holds up one of his food containers.
“You would share your precious, pre-made meals with me?”
Smiling, he tosses them both in the microwave. “You can’t live on peanut butter and jelly.”
“Not true.”
He comes to stand between my legs.
“What are your plans for tonight?”
“I was planning on watching the baseball game in front of the TV, passing out, and letting you wake me up all drunk and giggly.”
“I guess I could go upstairs and down what’s left of that bottle of vodka in the freezer and reappear in an hour or two.”
“Something to look forward to another night.”
The microwave dings and Declan grabs our dinner and two forks. We take it into the living room, where he turns on the baseball game.
“Wow. This is good,” I say, after taking a bite of the chicken, sweet potato, and broccoli meal. Honestly, my expectations were low. I take another bite to make sure I’m not just really hungry. I worked through lunch today, rewriting an article with Melody’s notes.
“I’ve been telling you. Way better than PB&J three times a week.”
“Let’s not get carried away.” I love me some peanut butter and strawberry jelly on wheat bread with the crusts cut off.
“How was work?” he asks, between bites.
I love that he asks. Sam was completely disinterested in hearing about my work. In fact, he hated my job, which I guess was fair, all things considered.
“Really good. By the way, have you heard of the Hat Tricks and Puck Bunnies podcast?”
“Yeah, definitely.” He looks intrigued. “Why?”
“They invited me on the show. Well, us, actually. They want to do an entire show on us and two other couples. It’s a whole off-season, ‘man behind the helmet’ angle. You tell them how you’re spending the summer, and I add in fun tidbits.”
He drops the container on the coffee table. “Jade, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?” I prepared myself for this outcome, but it still stings. A big podcast like this would get me in front of a whole new audience. If even a fraction of those listeners decided to read my articles, it’d mean a huge jump in numbers.
“Hockey is my job. Even if it’s a one-off, shooting the shit type interview, it’s still a part of that.”
“Okay,” I say, trying to figure out his real concern.
“I don’t want to spin a story to people that weigh in on my professional life. I know these guys. I respect them.”
“And you don’t want to flaunt our fake marriage in front of them,” I state matter-of-factly. Things have been going so well, the lines have blurred for me.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“No, of course. I’ll tell them no.” For reasons I can’t fully articulate, I feel hurt and silly because I’m hurt. Of course, he has boundaries. It’s just, this man has gotten so far under my skin in such a short amount of time, that it doesn’t feel like we’re flaunting something fake anymore.
I’m still thinking about it the next morning, when I send an apologetic ‘no thank you’ email to the podcast.
“It’s done.” I blow out a long breath after the whoosh sound, indicating the email has been sent.
“Sorry,” Scarlett says. “But you’re getting a ton of media requests. Another one—a better one—is right around the corner. I can feel it.”
We decided to work from our favorite coffee shop this morning instead of at the office. My phone buzzes on the table between us and she smiles. “See?”
I hold up the screen so she can see it’s my mom calling and not my next big interview request, then I hit ignore. My friend doesn’t comment on the way I dodge my mom’s calls. Talking to my mother requires an all-day buildup.
“Hey, do you want to get out of town this weekend?” I ask.
“And go where?”
“Anywhere.”
She purses her lips and arches a brow. “Hiding from your husband?”
“No,” I say automatically. “Maybe. I need a breather. We’re dating but married, living together and always in each other’s space. It’s a mindfuck.” It’s going so well that it’s freaking me out.
“Yeah.” She nods in agreement. “I get that.”
“We could road trip to Chicago or rent a house on the lake for the weekend.”
“I can’t.” Her lips pull into a half smile. “I am doing two engagement shoots tomorrow and I promised Cadence I’d come by on Sunday to have some adult conversation.”
Scarlett’s sister, Cadence, had a little boy two months ago. I don’t generally say this about babies, but he’s the freaking cutest.
Scarlett has to go into the office a few hours later, but I stay at the coffee shop, downing copious amounts of caffeine and trying to write. Trying because not a whole lot of words are being written.
When my mom calls a second time, I decide that talking to her is slightly less painful than staring at a blank screen and answer. “Hey, Mom.”
“Hi.” That one word, or rather the way she says it, has me immediately on high-alert. “Am I too old for pink walls?”
“What’s wrong?” The only time she gets a burning desire to paint the walls or buy new bedroom furniture is when she’s single.
She huffs a little laugh. “Can’t a mother just call to check in on her daughter?”
“Yes, you’re too old for pink walls.”
“I figured as much.”
“What happened with Kenny?”
“He moved out last week.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“I’m calling you now.” Translation, she’s spent the past week playing Fleetwood Mac records and burning sage in the house.
“I’m sorry.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.” She says it like it’s the universe’s fault, instead of hers or Kenny’s. “What are you up to?”
“Working.”
“Still?”
I check the time. It’s only five. She’d probably be appalled to know I work most nights until six or seven, and that’s just the hours I put in at the office. “I’m almost done.”
I close my laptop and stand and stretch.
“Big plans this weekend?”
“No. Probably just working.”
“You shouldn’t work so much. You’re young. You should be out, having fun.”
I make a noise that isn’t exactly agreement.
“I miss you,” she says.
“Maybe we could meet up for lunch sometime this weekend?”
“Or you could come here and I could make something for us.”
“Yeah,” I say, not exactly on board, but then I think through what my weekend will be like if I stay. Hanging with Declan and working on the house. Lazy mornings and late nights. It sounds great, which should have me rushing home to him right now, but I still can’t get a read on this situation.
I like him. I like him even more than I thought possible. And I think he genuinely likes me too, but we’re only two months into this thing. When we got married, I thought the worst possible outcome was us hating each other by the six-month mark. Now I’m more scared I won’t want it to end.
“You know what. How about I come for the weekend?”
“Seriously?” The last time I stayed overnight at my mom’s house, I think I was nineteen, so the surprise in her voice is warranted.
“We can paint and shop for new bedding and furniture. We’ll go all out.”
And maybe while we’re doing it, I can figure out how to date my husband.
When I was young, my mom and I bounced around apartments and houses to live with her boyfriends. Things would be stable for six months or so, then they’d break up and mom and I would be back out on our own. I was ten when I realized this was going to be a constant cycle of my life and begged my mom to find a house of our own.
I thought that it’d be better to have her boyfriends move in and out, then us always being the ones hopping around, but I’m not sure that was actually true. This house is tainted with memories of all her past boyfriends.
Still, it was nice that we stopped having to pack up and go. My old bedroom was turned into a craft room about a month after I left for college. I wasn’t offended. It’s a small house and I had no desire to return, not having a room made it an easy excuse not to visit.
But as I toss and turn on the sofa, I’m seriously wishing my old twin bed was still in the spare room. Or that I was back at my current residence.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table and I reach for it; Declan’s name is on the screen, along with a picture I took of him at Jack’s pool party. The man really looks great in a pair of trunks.
“Hi,” I answer, keeping my voice quiet.
“Hey.” His deep reply sends goosebumps racing down my arms. “Are you busy?”
“No. Getting ready for bed.”
“Did you have a good evening with your mom?”
“Yeah. We prepped her room to paint tomorrow, picked up supplies and then went out to dinner.”
“Sounds nice.”
“It was…mostly.”
He stays silent, giving me time to add more.
“She’s so happy for me. For us. I hate lying to her. She may not have been the world’s greatest mother, but I still love her and hate keeping something like this a secret.”
“So don’t.”
I laugh at how quickly he says it, and at how simple it seems to him.
“Too many people know already. If this got out, it would be bad for both of us.”
“She’s family,” he says. “My family, my friends on the team, all know. It makes sense for you to be honest with yours too. She wouldn’t really sell out her own daughter, would she?”
“No,” I say without hesitation. She’s been selfish and inadvertently callous, but never intentionally.
“Then tell her. I’m fine with it. I trust you.”
Something in my chest twists at how freely he’s given me that trust. I have to wonder if I deserve it.
“Anyway,” he says when I don’t respond, “I was just calling to make sure you got there safely and that everything was okay. I didn’t realize you were even thinking about going to your mom’s this weekend.”
That twisting sensation tightens.
“Everything is fine. She called this afternoon and sounded kind of upset about her latest breakup.”
He makes a noise that doesn’t sound like he completely believes that’s the entire story, but again, he doesn’t push.
“I’ll be back Sunday, and, in the meantime, you have the house to yourself all weekend.”
“A few months ago, that would have sounded nice.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. My voice trembles as I say, “I’ll see you Sunday, okay?”
“Yeah,” he clips.
“Bye.”
He waits a few beats, like maybe he’s hoping I’ll say more, then says, “Night, Jade.”
The next afternoon, while we’re repainting my mom’s bedroom, I decide to broach the subject of my marriage.
“How come you never got married again after Pat?” I ask her. Pat was husband number three. It lasted a month.
While I wait for her answer, I keep my gaze on the paint roller. She decided on a soft white for all the walls, except one, which is, of course, pink. She chose a dusty, light pink, and it actually turned out really nice. It turns out, pink has no age limit.
“You wish I’d gotten married again?” she asks, disbelief making her voice lift several octaves. “To which guy? I thought you hated them all.”
“I didn’t hate all of them.” I finally look over at her. She’s stopped painting and is arching a brow at me. “Okay, I didn’t really like any of them either. But you did. Some of them you even dated for a year or more.”
“None of them asked,” she says. “And even if they had, I’m not sure I really saw myself saying yes.”
“You don’t want to get married again?”
“No, I guess I don’t. Maybe if I meet the right guy. Someone I can see myself with forever. It’s been a while since I felt like that. Like with you and Declan. You must have known pretty fast that he was the one.”
I know this is my opening to tell her the truth, but I grapple for the right words. “Not exactly.”
Her mouth pulls into a frown. “You couldn’t have dated for more than a month before you got married.”
I set my roller down in the paint tray. “We didn’t date at all.”
My pulse quickens and I take several quick breaths before adding, “Sam called off our engagement the week of the wedding and Declan stepped in to save my job.”
I think I’ve stunned her. She just looks at me with wide eyes, her mouth opening and closing, but no words come out.
“I know it sounds bad.”
“How could you do something like this?”
“It isn’t that big of a deal. And now we really are dating, so it isn’t a complete lie.”
“But you’re not dating, Jade. You’re married. Marriage is a beautiful, sacred thing.”
“That ends in divorce half the time.”
“So that’s your plan?”
I nod. “Melody said we needed to give it at least a year and that works for Declan too because he’ll be in the off-season next July. It’ll give things a month or two to quiet down before hockey starts again.”
“I cannot believe this.” She shakes her head and looks down at the floor. “I’m really disappointed in you.”
“That’s rich, Mom. You’ve dated a dozen or more guys over the years, moving them into this house, into our lives, like they were going to be around forever when you admittedly knew they weren’t, and you’re disappointed in me?”
“You are deceiving people. It’s wrong.”
“We’re really together now. I like him a lot.”
“You can’t start a relationship like this.”
“Says who?”
“It isn’t right. This isn’t healthy for you or him. How do you expect him to respect you after the choices you’ve made? You can’t really think he’ll want to be with you after this is all over?”
It’s all my worst fears spoken aloud, and icy dread washes over me. “Maybe you’re right, but how could I possibly know what a healthy relationship looks like? I’ve avoided coming home for years because you’re always so focused on whatever guy you’re dating, that you lose sight of everything else. You don’t even know who you are without a boyfriend. At least I can stand on my own.”
Hurt flashes in her eyes, and I regret saying the words, even if they’re true.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“No, I guess I deserve that. I know I wasn’t perfect, but I did my best. I’m gonna get some air.” She stares at me a beat, so much disappointment in her gaze that it makes my stomach uneasy.
“Fuck,” I mutter when she’s gone. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
