Page 31 of Easton

I laugh and murmur a humble “Thanks,” but inside I’m fist-pumping the air.

Yes, success!

I added more cheese than Mom usually does, but otherwise, it’s the same recipe. Of course, Easton loves cheese, so it makes sense that he’d like mine better. In any case, I’m happy this dinner is a hit.

“I’ll have to cook us more things,” I tell him.

“I would love that,” he replies. But then, turning serious, he says, “Only if you really want to, though.”

I assure him, “Don’t worry, I only cook if I really feel like it.”

“Good.” He nods approvingly, then says, “Maybe I can make something for you sometime too. I’m not the greatest in the kitchen, but I can grill up some mean-ass steaks.”

I don’t know what exactly “mean-ass” steaks are, but I assume they’re good, so I laugh and say, “Sounds like a deal.”

As we work on our meals, conversation continues to flow freely. Easton tells me all about his away games.

I listen with rapt attention, even though I watched them all. It’s still fun to hear his perspective and the behind-the-scenes scoop.

He shares with me at one point that Lennox hooked up with an old girlfriend in Vancouver.

I ask, “Do you think anything will come of it?”

He chortles, “No. That’s just typical Lennox behavior. She was there and willing, so…”

I roll my eyes. “Good God, that just confirms it. I am never introducing him to Madison.”

I told Easton that my friend has the hots for Lennox, but he agreed with me—setting them up is probably a bad idea.

“Yeah,” he says, hacking off another hunk of lasagna with the side of his fork. “I wouldn’t get those two together.”

After dinner, we clean up the kitchen. We make a good team, with him handing me the dishes and me loading them into the dishwasher.

Once we’re finished, we both agree we’re up for a walk to burn off some of the calories and carbs from our rich meal.

But first we change out our shoes—my strappy sandals and his loafers—for sturdy hiking boots.

“Are you ready?” Easton asks as we meet back up in the entry hall.

“Yep,” I confirm.

He pops open the front door, and I follow my husband—God, it still feels so weird thinking that—outside.

What I told Claire was the truth—her lasagna dinner was fucking delicious. And yes, it requires an expletive, as it was that fantastic. “Next-level” was truly an understatement.

I’m glad we’re now taking a walk on the trails around the house. I really don’t care about working off calories and carbs; I just want to spend more time with Claire.

I fucking missed her.

Yes, again, the expletive is required.

Things were a little weird with us after the charity dinner, but we seem to be back on track. We’re laughing and joking as we wind down the desert path, just like old times.

And that makes me think of something, prompting me to say, “Hey, you know what we need to do?”

This part of the trail is wide enough that Claire is walking next to me.

Glancing over, she asks, “What’s that?”

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