Page 50 of Love is a Game

It’s kind of surreal, Tuck’s big frame overwhelming my childhood bed. Him lecturing me about my to-do list like an eager PA after the X-rated adventures we shared last night. Like we didn’t just strip each other down to nothing, like I didn’t spend hours tangled up in him, gasping his name into the pillows.

Now here he is, focused and pragmatic, nudging me through grief with lists and logistics.

Maybe that’s what I need. Someone who won’t let me drown in it. But it’s jarring, this pivot from raw intimacy to practical duty, from heat to obligation.

“Can we at least eat first?” I sigh. “I can’t face any of it on an empty stomach.”

Tuck sits up, dropping his legs to the floor. “I’ll make breakfast on one condition.” He squints at me, his ocean-hued eyes serious. “You go find the outfit your mom requested so we can drop it off today.”

I sag onto the bed. “I haven’t been in her room yet. I’m not sure I can do it.”

“Pen, I know this is hard, but don’t you want to make a plan and deal with this stuff?”

The mild hint of exasperation in his voice riles me.

“Of course,” I answer sarcastically. “Because nothing saysprocessing traumalike goal-setting and performance metrics. You think I should just self-motivate my way through dressing my dead mother and planning her funeral? Like some corporate exercise?”

“Whatever works to get you through.” Tuck’s amazingly unruffled by my shitty attitude. “Consider that the sooner it’s done, the better you’ll feel. Or the fact that there’s a limit to how long you can delay a funeral, Pen.”

I shrug, pulling jeans from my suitcase.

“Maybe you need a short-term reward system?” Tuck runs his fingers through his hair. “Fine. You get through the tough stuff, starting with finding your mom’s blue dress, and I’ll make your favorite pancakes.”

Now I feel like a bribed child. But whatever, I really would like pancakes.

“Maybe we could do it together?” I bargain. “After breakfast?”

“No, Pen.” Tuck shakes his head. “Breakfast is the reward. We’re here now. Her room is at the end of the hall. Let’s just get it done.”

I tilt my head. “Blueberrypancakes?”

“Yep.”

“With maple syrup?”

“Naturally.”

“And—”

“Stop stalling!” He grabs my hands and tugs me forward. “This is just the first task. There’s still the rest of the funeral arrangements, checking what’s on that old computer, and deciding what to do with the house.”

I go limp. “The house?”

“Yeah. It’s yours now, right?” he questions. “Don’t you think that’s what’s in her will? You’ll have to decide whether to keep it, sell it, or rent it out. That’s why you have to start dealing with this, Pen. There’s a lot to figure out.”

He plants his hands on my shoulders, steering me toward the hallway. “So, let’s get started.”

It’s barely a dozen steps to her bedroom door.

I glance at Tuck for reassurance.

He gives a determined nod.

Then we step inside.

“Ugh.” We exchange grimaces.

A putrid stench clings to the heavy air.

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