Page 124 of If Ever

“True, because I also need another job.”

I shake my head. It’s an impossible situation. I resume playing with his hair, lightly running my fingernails against his scalp.

He gazes up at me with a grateful smile, his eyelids growing heavy, and mumbles, “What should we do tonight?”

“You’re kidding, right? You can barely keep your eyes open.”

“No. I miss you, and I don’t want you to get bored with me gone all the time. Any luck with the job search?”

“Nah. The investment firm turned me down. I didn’t really like it anyway. Turns out it’s hard to find a job right before the holidays. Now how about you relax for a while? Just close your eyes and let everything else drift away.”

His eyes open wider revealing flecks of gray along with the clear blue. “You’re bewitching me, aren’t you?”

I laugh and resume grazing my fingertips over his forehead, cheeks, and lips. “Trying to. Would you please stop talking and close your eyes.”

He kisses my hand and closes his eyes. “Promise you won’t go anywhere?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Within minutes, his breathing shifts to slow and steady. His face relaxes in slumber and he looks younger, peaceful, the burdens he carries are released for now. I admire his strong cheekbones, his straight narrow nose and solid jaw. How did I get so lucky? “I love you, Tom,” I whisper, and he sleeps on.

When he shifts to roll over, I slip out from under him, placing a pillow under his head and a blanket over his lanky form.

Two hours later, he appears in the kitchen yawning and rubbing his head. “Something smells delicious.”

I’m elbows deep whisking a flour mixture into juices from a roast. “Good. I hope you’re hungry.”

“I’m famished. What are you making?”

“Gravy.” I glance at him quick for his reaction, then back to my bubbling sauce. “I know you don’t usually eat anything with fat, but tough. You’re exhausted and working yourself to death. You need comfort food and calories.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says in way too agreeable tone.

I glance at him. “No argument?”

He sneaks his arms around my waist and says into my ear, “When a beautiful woman wants to make me a dinner that smells this good, I’m not about to argue.” He kisses my neck.

“Good.”

“Where did you learn to cook like this?” he asks carrying the platter of roast beef, potatoes, and carrots to the table.

“My mom. She made a roast every Sunday in the fall and winter.” I set a lettuce salad next to it. “When I was little, she’d push a stool up to the stove and have me stir the juices from the roast while she poured in the flour mixture. By the time she got sick, I was a pro.”

We take a seat and he looks ready to devour the whole thing. “I had no idea you could cook.”

“You’ve been obsessed with eating skinless chicken and spinach smoothies, so I haven’t had much chance,” I say pointing my fork at him. “Mom taught me a few recipes before she died. I make a mean meatloaf too. I have her recipe box. People don’t use them anymore, but I love it because it’s got her handwriting on the recipes. Some are even written by my grandmother.”

“She’s gone too?” He lifts his fork to take a bite.

“Yeah, the same cancer as my mom.”

Tom lowers his fork. “Are you worried you might get it?”

It’s obvious it worries him. “I was for a while, but then I had genetic testing done in college. By some miracle I don’t carry the same gene. It’s the one good thing my dad ever gave me, healthy DNA."

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