Page 51 of Open Secrets
I press my forehead to hers, both of us gasping. “Every time,” I rasp. “Decades, Maria. And it still feels brand new.”
She laughs, shaky and wet, running her fingers through my damp hair. “I love you,” she whispers.
I grin against her lips, still out of breath. “I love you too.”
Chapter Sixteen
Maria — Present
I wake up to someone staring at me.
Turning sideways, I fold my hands under my cheek. “Hi.”
“Hey,” Lyle says, leaning in to kiss me.
I try to deepen it, but he pulls away with a laugh. “Stop. The kids are gonna be home soon, and we still have to talk.”
I blow out a breath. “Fine.”
He sits up, sheets pooling around his waist. I do the same, tugging the blanket over my chest. His eyes follow the way I wrap it tight, and his mouth twists into something sad—like he knows why.
“Probably a good idea,” he says quietly.
I roll my eyes. I’m a woman in my forties, and he still looks at me like I’m eighteen.
I take a deep breath. “Okay.”
He rubs the back of his head. “I know I said I’d quit, but—”
“Nope.” I cut him off sharp. “Nope.”
I swing off the bed, muttering how stupid I am for falling for it. I yank the sheet off his legs on purpose. He scrambles for a pillow to cover himself like I haven’t seen him naked a thousand times.
“Fell for what?” he asks, eyebrows knitting.
I snatch his shirt from the floor, pointing it at him like an accusation. “You.”
Balancing the sheet under my chin, I wrestle the shirt over my head. Yes, I look ridiculous, but I don’t care. My voice goes mocking, deep like his: “‘I’ll quit. I love you more.’”
He gets up, pillow forgotten now. “I do love you.” His voice is steady, not defensive. “I just meant I should retire instead of quit.”
I freeze halfway through tugging the shirt down. “Oh.”
“Yeah. I’ve got twenty-five years of service,” he says, the next part coming out sad, softer than he probably meant. “Have a little faith.”
The words hang there. I let the sheet drop and shrug. “Sorry.”
I turn away before I can see his face, crossing to the closet. My fingers brush over hangers until I land on an old pair of jeans. I pull them out, step into them, zipping up with jerky movements.
Over my shoulder, I toss it out flat: “Can’t believe we wasted money on that therapist.”
Behind me, I hear Lyle stammer, his voice catching like he wasn’t ready for that hit. “So—you don’t want to go back?”
I tug on a clean shirt, my back still to him. “Why would we?”
The air goes quiet again, heavy. I know he’s still sitting there, probably naked, trying to find the right words.
I step out of the closet and toss his shirt at him. “What?”
