Page 26 of Everything We Give

Good-bye and good riddance.

Aimee and I can finally climb out from under thewhat ifof James’s return that has been looming over our marriage since ... oh ... forever.

“I want a brownie,” Caty says, still adorned in princess attire as she prances behind me.

I turn around and give her a look.

“I want a brownie,please.” She grins big, showing all her teeth. “And chocolate milk.”

“Sure thing, Caty-cakes.” I lean close to her ear. “But don’t tell your mom about the chocolate milk.” One afternoon treat is bad enough, but two?

I’m such a sucker.

And Caty knows it. She works me.

We press fingers to our lips, then hook them in our secret shake.

The café is relatively empty, the lunchtime crowd come and gone. A few stragglers linger over coffee and baked goods, their noses in their laptops and phones. I set Caty up at a small table where I can see her from behind the counter, then help myself to the baked goods, plating a brownie. The biggest one left, of course. I mix a cup of chocolate milk using Aimee’s custom blend of cocoa, powdered sugar, and vanilla.

Trish wipes down the countertop. “Hi, Ian.”

I smile over at her. “Hey, Trish. How was it today?”

“Busy. We were slammed this morning. It always happens when we’re short staffed.”

“Murphy’s Law.”

“Never fails. Aimee kept her cool, though.” Trish folds the dish towel. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen her work the kitchen. She seemed to love it. I think she misses being back there.”

“I bet you’re right. Is she here?” I glance toward the kitchen.

“She just got back from running errands. She’s in her office.” Trish moves to the sink to rinse mugs.

“Thanks.”

I bring Caty her brownie and chocolate milk. She’s spread her crayons across the table and has her notebook open to a blank page. “Stay here where Trish can see you. I’m going to go talk with your mom.”

“OK, Daddy.”

I kiss the top of her crowned head and make my way down the back hall to Aimee’s office. She sits behind her desk, head in her hand, flipping through a stack of paperwork. They look like lease agreements or loan documents, lots of black print from what I can see.

I lean against the door frame, not wanting to interrupt. My fingers tingle, the desire to go to her almost pushing me into the tiny office space. But I don’t move, I just watch. I could watch her all day.

Five years married and I still get a rush when I set eyes on her. That rubber band of emotion connecting us hasn’t snapped. It grows taut in her absence and draws me back when I’m in her presence. I felt it the day we met at Wendy’s gallery, and for the first time since I’d moved back to the States from France, I didn’t feel the need to keep on moving. Because of Aimee, I wanted to stay.

Aimee yawns, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. Her face looks drawn, her hair twisted up in a bun stabbed with two pencils.

She must have sensed me, for she looks up and smiles, a weary curve of her lips. Circles darken the pits under her eyes like night shades. “Hi.” Her voice is soft, tired.

“Hey,” I murmur, pushing away from the doorway. I go around her desk and settle on the edge. Wisps of hair have escaped the latticework of pencils, lending her face a soft, endearing appearance despite the exhaustion weighing down her expression. I trace a thumb along her cheekbone. “Long day?”

Her eyes drift closed. She leans into my hand. “I’m tired.” She laughs lightly at stating the obvious and lifts her chin. I take her invitation and kiss her, lingering on her lips. I taste coffee and cocoa, a hint of mint. And I taste Aimee, luscious and divine.

“I missed you this morning. I was hoping for a repeat of last night.” I trail the back of my fingers down the column of her throat.

She hums. “Last night was good. I would have loved spending the morning in bed with you, but duty called.” She wiggles a pen in the direction of the kitchen, then taps the stack of documents on her desk. “And these are due. I’ve read the same paragraph five times in this lease agreement. My eyes keep crossing.” She pushes away from the desk and stands. She stretches, arms high and hands linked as she leans left then right.

I glance at her paperwork. “Which retail space did you decide on?”

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