Page 48 of Je T'aime, Actually
“Always.”
The screen went dark, but Monroe sat there for a moment longer, letting the warmth of connection linger in the quiet of her room.
thirty-nine
Kitty lounged on the sofa, legs kicking absently behind her as she hugged a cushion tight to her chest. Her eyes were fixed on the cartoon flickering across the screen, her face shifting through a full spectrum of emotions: joy, worry, laughter, all within minutes.
From her spot across the room, Monroe watched her with quiet amusement, captivated by the honest expressiveness only children seemed to manage without self-consciousness.
“So,” Poppy said, entering the room with two glasses of wine, “what are you going to do this weekend without Chloé to keep you…busy?” She wiggled her brows suggestively as she handed one glass over.
Monroe chuckled, accepting the drink. “I don’t know. I’m still a bit sad about it.”
“That’s the trouble with long distance,” Poppy said, flopping down beside her. “One tiny disruption and the whole plan goes up in smoke.”
“I know. It’s not ideal.” Monroe swirled her wine gently. “I got used to our little routine. Every other weekend, either here or there. It gave structure to the in-between.”
“She’s still keen, though? This isn’t the start of some lame, slow-fade brush-off?” Poppy’s voice was light, but her eyes sharpened.
Monroe smiled at the protectiveness. “No, nothing like that. She’s French, remember? If she wanted to end things, she’d just say it straight out—no drama, no excuses.”
Poppy grinned. “Fair.”
Monroe took a sip of wine. “And honestly? I respect she isn’t willing to just walk away from what she’s built over there, like it’s disposable. I like that about her. That kind of integrity…it matters.”
Poppy gave her a long look, then nodded. “Okay. I believe you. Still, you know I’m on standby with chocolate and wine should you ever need to rage-weep on my kitchen floor again.”
Monroe laughed softly. “Noted.”
From the sofa, Kitty gasped at the screen, clutching the cushion tighter. Monroe glanced over and smiled to herself. It was strangely reassuring the way the world kept turning, even when plans shifted.
There was a sudden burst of commotion as the front door crashed open, followed by the thunder of several pairs of feet skidding across the hallway floor. One by one, boyish faces appeared in the doorway to the living room, all flushed, wide-eyed, and breathless. Two of them were half-carrying Benji, who limped between them.
“What in thebejeesusis going on?” Poppy said, twisting around at the noise. Her eyes quickly dropped to the muddy legs and bloodied knee at the centre of the pack.
“He scored a goal,” one of the boys panted. “Did a knee-slide to celebrate…but there was glass on the pitch.”
“We rinsed it in the toilets,” another added quickly, “but it won’t stop bleeding.”
Benji gave a brave little shrug, lips wobbling. “Hurts, Mum.”
Monroe was already on her feet. “I’ll grab the first aid kit.”
“And a towel!” Poppy called after her, already moving to crouch beside her son. Kitty barely glanced at them all.
Returning moments later, with the first aid kit tucked under one arm and a clean hand towel in the other, Monroe dropped to her knees beside Poppy, her eyes scanning Benji’s injury with calm focus.
“It’s not too deep,” she murmured, dabbing gently around the wound with the damp towel. “Looks worse because of all the blood.”
Benji sniffed, watching her with wide, damp eyes. “Will I need stitches?”
“Nah,” Monroe said with a reassuring smile. “You’ll live to score another goal. But maybe skip the dramatic slides next time, yeah?”
“You’re such a baby,” Kitty threw across the room.
That earned a few chuckles from the boys hovering nearby, their energy still buzzing from the game.
Poppy glanced sideways at Monroe, her voice low, “You sure you weren’t a paramedic in another life?”
