Page 139 of The Kiss of Deception

Waving on the sidelines, his parents are dressed in formal clothing: jerseys and scarves in red colors with their son’s name, and beaming smiles that barely contain the contagious trifecta powered by Miles—happiness, pride, and unbridled love.

Old Grandpa looks down at us from his box. In the distance, I see the watery curve of his smile and I ache to stretch my hand to hold his. But his son is there. He does it himself.

Fifteen years of history will never be erased, but we’re tucking the pen in our fingers and rewriting the ending.

After a small fortune of therapy, against myself and my self-sabotaging stubbornness, I decided to try. For my Grandpa, for my relationship, for my baby. But especially for me. Because I deserve a life without the burden of resentment and what-ifs.

My mom watches everything—us, them, and all the chapters we’ve written together. When she smiles at me, I know.

We’ll be fine.

We’ll argue and fight, and as long we’re willing to fight, we’ll be fine.

“You should celebrate,” I say to my husband. “Hold your trophy, enjoy your victory.”

I don’t think he has looked at the cup twice. Granted, it’s a carbon copy of the one his (our) team, Boston FC—officially twice-in-a-row national champions—won last season, but I still think he deserves to rejoice in the fruits of his hard work.

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to do.”

Helpless, I stare at him as he enumerates all the reasons why we should leave now.

Miles Blackstein.

My husband. The father of my child. My Number Nine. My forever.

“Blackstein?” I stop his rambling in its tracks.

“Yes, love?”

“Shut up.” He obeys promptly, clamping his mouth shut and glaring at me with a frown. “Oh my God, Miles! That meant shut up and kiss me, not shut up and stay still and quie—”

He robs me of further argument, grabbing my waist to pull my body to his again. Like magnet and steel, they latch, they lock—not one centimeter between us. The mint in his warm breath kisses my lips first as he hovers, promising and denying.

“Yes, love.”

He smiles—there they are, those damn dimples. They have always been my damnation.

And he complies.

Finally, he complies. He kisses me with all the adoration and ardent promise I can taste in every single one of his kisses.

Cameras surround us and the whole world is watching. I don’t spare them a thought.

Inside our bubble, it’s just us. Forever us.

Miles

“Daddy!”

Our backyard has bouncy castles now, pink and right out of a fairy tale.

Inside, where the wind doesn’t blow and the rain doesn’t fall, my whole world resides.

My family.

We lie, the four of us, as I narrate Alice in Wonderland to my family. Just like my mother did so many times when I used to dream of days like today—like every day with my family.

I never fully comprehended it until I saw her.

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