Page 62 of What's in a Kiss?

It led me to a video someone had taken while everyone was dancing to “(I’ve Had) The Time of My Life.” The camera panned from the line of taco customers to the men working on Enrique’s truck, to Jake up in the tree. The caption over the reel readsExpectant Father Saves the Day! Clears Epic Traffic Jam for His Wife in Labor.

I laughed at the mischaracterization of Jake’s role, but I watched it ten times, zooming in on his perfect, charismatic smile, on his complete comfort guiding a difficult crowd to a happy resolution. Of course people guessed he was the father. Otherwise, he’s just some random guy, too good to be true.

I was wide awake when Jake came into bed. Buzzing with questions about how this version of him never found the success baked into him back home. I acted like I was sleeping, but I didn’t hate it when he wrapped me in his arms.

And I don’t hate waking up in them now.

His eyes open like he heard my thoughts.

“Big day,” he smiles. His gaze runs from my eyes down to my lips. “I refuse to be distracted by how sexy you are in the morning.”

Something like a giggle leaves me. Not a sound I’ve ever made in front of Jake. I look down.

“Your mouth,” I say, “seems to be writing checks your body can’t cash—”

“You’re right,” he says. “My franchise is expanding into your territory.” He pulls away, taking his smoking hot hard-on with him when he goes. I bunch the covers closer, feeling the chill of not being near him. Who keeps a room this cold?

In an effort not to see Jake naked, I roll over and grab my phone. What does “Big Day” mean in High Life-speak? Just how out of my depth and dignity will I be today? The “Home” calendar I share with Jake reveals that from 9:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m., I’ve blocked out time for something I’ve labeled “Deck.”

What does it mean?

On the bright side, I seem to have the day off from shootingZombie Hospital. On the dark side, a whole day doing something mysterious with Jake, alone? Eight whole hours for him to see that I’m a fraud who only looks like the woman he married?

I can’t let my guard down.

“Deck”couldbe showbiz-related, like the visual decks made to pitch a TV show. Maybe it’s related to Jake’s podcast? I do have a few budding opinions aboutClean Slate’s intended audience and scope...

One certainty is we’re doing “Deck” together. It’s something he—and possibly we—are looking forward to.

“How much time do you need to get yours ready?” Jake calls from his closet.

When I don’t answer, he pads back into the room—bare-chested, burnished muscles, cotton pajama pants slung low. Even if I’d had an answer, seeing him without a shirt silences me.

“Oh great, you’re totally ready, aren’t you?” Jake fills in my silence, cruelly tugging on a hoodie, which he somehow still manages to look like a sex god in.

What’s gotten into me? It’s times like these when I could really use a best friend or my mom to reason this stuff out.

“I’m close, I swear,” Jake says, riding his own train of thought. “Just a few last finishing touches. Five minutes and I’ll meet you, okay? This is going to be so good.”

He laughs, taps the doorframe, and he’s gone from the bedroom. I search my phone, but nothing in my text threads, emails, or Notes app offers any clue about Deck Day. I brush my teeth and stand inside my closet, letting Jake’s casual attire inform my own selection.

Reaching for my sneakers, my hand rustles something that feels like a satin gift bow. I kneel down, parting a rack of sweaters to reveal a box markedDeck Day.

Jackpot?

The box is wrapped in paper printed with lipstick kisses. Is this a gift for Jake? I shake it. Something light shimmies inside.

“Olivia!” Jake’s excitement rings through the house. “It’s time!”

The opening chords of Journey’s “Faithfully” blast through speakers built into the closet walls. I jump at the sound, thengather myself. I have to play along with whatever Deck Day is. I’ve got to fake it till I make it back to my bungalow downhill.

Through the bedroom windows, I see Jake outside by the pool. He’s got a brown paper bag that looks auspiciously like takeout, his laptop opened to a Spotify playlist. Next to him stands a forty-pound sack of soil, several flats of seedlings, a power hose, and a clear Tupperware container full of rags.

Suddenly I see how simple, how literal—how non-sexual!—Deck Day is. We’re passing our day... tending the garden on our deck. Together. Like married people do.

I smile, glancing at the gift in my hands, at Jake nodding in time to the music, at the food he’s had delivered. I feel a pinch in my heart. Real Life me can handle High Life this.

I step through the sliding door to the backyard. When Jake sees me, he throws back his head and his arms and belts out the “whoa-oh-oh”s at the end of “Faithfully.” Because I’m a Journey freak, it’s impossible for me not to sing along. I harmonize as I pass the pool, going low when he goes high, letting Steve Perry carry us through the song’s melodic peaks. It sounds so good it’s obvious we’ve done this before. By the time the song is over, I’ve come to sway by Jake. We’re endorphin-flushed and laughing.

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