Page 53 of Just Say When

But no matter how we started, we always ended the same. Face to face, Essie flat on her back, our hands intertwined over her head, my body pleading for what I could never say out loud.

Stay with me.

22

Brax

Jack:

You want to explain the letter I got from Mom?

Brax:

Shit. I was going to tell you.

Jack:

Is this a joke? Because I’m not laughing.

Brax:

Listen, I know you’re mad. Give me a chance to explain.

Jack:

You don’t have a fucking clue what I am. But you’re about to find out.

Well, fuck.

That was ominous.

I stared at Jack’s last text. Where was he right now? Somewhere in eastern Europe, I was pretty sure. That was a long way from Aspen Springs, Colorado. And not even Jack could kick my ass from five thousand miles away.

I was pretty sure, anyway.

But that was a worry for another day, because today was Wednesday, and I had more important things to do. Like stare at his sister’s ass as she bopped and shimmied to the music in her headphones while she folded laundry.

I had taken to working from home on Wednesdays, setting up my makeshift office at the kitchen table, where I had a good view of most of the house, with the exception of the bedrooms. Essie tended to sleep in until eight or nine, when she emerged from her bedroom in my sweatpants and college tee shirt, which she had apparently commandeered as her own, despite her promise to return them.

I wasn’t mad about it.

But I scowled at her as if I were.

Generally, that led to her taking them off, which led to my clothes coming off, too.

We had sex a lot on Wednesdays, maybe because we didn’t get to see much of each other the rest of the week. Sometimes I saw her eyes narrow in on the tattoo on my heart, and her lips would flatten in a frown. But she didn’t ask me about it again. And she still slept in the guestroom.

We had been married for a month now, and in some ways, we were getting to know each other all over again. Sometimes I caught her watching me with a befuddled expression, like she was wondering how we got here from where we were.

I was more interested in figuring out where we were going.

The doorbell rang.

I glanced up at Essie, who was holding a sweatshirt under her chin, her lips moving to words I couldn’t hear. Then I closed my laptop—I doubted Essie would go snooping, but I took my clients’ privacy seriously—and got up to see who was at the door.

A package delivery, probably, though I wasn’t expecting anything.

But I didn’t get a chance to see, because the second I opened the door, something hit me right in the gut, knocking the wind clean out of me. I doubled over, my hands on my knees, as the corners of my vision went black.

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