Page 63 of Unhurried Hearts

I turn to see him holding a men’s version.

“We’re going to change, I’m ordering food from a restaurant because I’m starving, and then we’ll sit in this big bed and watch movies. Sound good?”

It sounds like the best idea ever.

“You know what I’m thinking, though?” I ask. “This bed is made upwaytoo nicely for movie watching.”

His eyes gleam and then we each take a side, working together to absolutely destroy the tightly made bed.

Much later, we’re cosy in the rearranged blankets, full of food and half asleep after getting into the mini fridge bar. The champagne wasn’t my last drink of the night after all.

“Chris?”

“Yeah, honey?”

“Darren was here tonight.”

He drops the remote onto the duvet and rolls to face me. A line forms between his eyes.

“Did he talk to you?”

I blow out a breath and explain what happened. There was a tiny part of me that was worried he’d get really riled up about it, but instead he shakes his head like he feels sorry for the guy.

“He’s a loser.”

I agree.

“Where are these underwear with my name on them?” he asks.

I shove against his hard chest. We turn our attention towards the television once more but there’s still one part of my interaction with Darren tonight that bothers me.

My voice is soft when I say, “He said I was vanilla.”

He makes a sound best described as a growl as he turns out his bedside lamp and tugs me closer.

“You know what, Annie?”

“Hmm?”

“Vanilla is my favourite flavour,” he growls before diving beneath the layers of white bedding.

Chapter twenty-eight

Chris

All I wanted was to borrow a tool from Dad’s garage this morning and now I’m playing mediator, a role that I feel woefully under qualified to perform. Mom has been needling Caro about her plans. If she’s looking for jobs or if she wants to go back to college. If she’s going to stay with them “forever” or if she’ll disappear again. Based on my sister’s thinning patience, it’s not the first time they’ve had the conversation.

“Would you two stop?” I say around a bite of warm chocolate chip cookie that Caro probably stress baked.

The kitchen goes so quiet that I can hear Dad using a ratchet in the garage. I use the moment of peaceto suck in breath and formulate the thought I’ve been trying to get out for the last fifteen minutes while my mom and sister have one of their epic bicker battles. It’s like old times, and not in a good way.

“How long are we going to do this? Caro is back, which is the only thing you’ve talked about wanting for years, and you’re still not happy? Give her five seconds to figure out her next steps.”

They give identical haughty snorts.

“I’m not going to make you guys hug and make up but, like, figure it out.”

Mom’s body language softens, and she cleans a smudge off her glasses with the hem of her sweater. “That’s what I used to make you two do.”

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