Page 104 of The Homemaker
We’re alone.
“I’m sorry my mom said that. In her defense, she had too much to drink, and it’s a fair assumption that your fiancée would know you owned rental property less than a mile from here.”
He keeps his head down while cleaning the last plate. “It’s not her fault. I take full responsibility. And Blair knows I owned a rental, but she just recently found out. That’s on me. I shouldn’t have waited so long to tell her. But I’m an adult and fully capable of weighing risks.”
Me. I’m a risk. What we did earlier was a risk.
I don the pink gloves from under the sink and run dish water. “Well, you should not have taken the risk that you took earlier with me.”
“You’re right.” He sets the plate on the neat pile next to the sink.
I didn’t expect him to agree so wholeheartedly. It steals my breath for a few seconds, a little gut punch.
At a loss for words, I focus on scrubbing the dishes and setting them in the strainer as fast as Murphy can dry them. I’m obviously hurt by his admission, yet he makes no effort to say it differently or apologize, which only makes me angrier. And I don’t even know why I’m so mad. He’s not my fiancé. I willingly unbuttoned my dress. I wanted it to happen.
A good man would feel regret. Right? No. A good man wouldn’t do it in the first place. But that feels equally awful because Murphy is a good man. That’s why we fell in love in less than two weeks. That’s why eight years later, these feelings are still alive, sprouting, taking root, and searching for sunlight to grow again.
As the silence stretches, my stupid emotions build. But I refuse to cry. He’snot mine.Blair should cry. Not me.
Would it kill him to say something?Hey, it was fun, but wrong. No hard feelings?
Or …
I’m an asshole for cheating on my fiancée. I’m going to break up with her immediately.
He won’t say that because he loves her. This isn’t contrived. It’s real and messy. I’m sure anyone on the sidelines would think of a dozen better moves to make, but it’s like me yelling at Chris to wake up and swim to the surface, to fight, and live. It’s always easier to live a perfect life when it’s not yours.
“I don’t trust you,” Murphy says.
I freeze while tugging off my gloves.
He dries his hands, leaning against the island. “And I”—he chuckles while shaking his head—“I feel emotionally mature for having the courage to say that to you because I’m ashamed. It’s been eight years. You’ve spentsolong overcoming everything you went through. And I’ve moved on. Yet, when I’m with you, I’m scared out of my fucking mind that you’re—” His voice catches and his throat bobs as his eyes redden.
Chris died, but Murphy is the emotional carnage.
“I hurt you. And you think I could do it again.” I set the gloves aside.
He stares at his feet, then he nods.
“But it’s more than that. You love her.”
Another nod.
“Then it’s settled. You’ll marry Blair as planned. And in twenty years, she’ll hire you a homemaker, and you’ll not even remember my name.”
“Fuck you,” he says, missing the humor in my joke.
“I think that’s a bad idea since you’re engaged.”
“Well, that’sallI want to do.”
My jaw unhinges, but nothing comes out.
Murphy pushes off the counter and cups my face, bringing his lips so close to mine I almost whimper when he stops. His thumb traces my lower lip. “Hi,” he whispers.
Damn him.
I barely get “hi” out before he kisses me. My mind swims, and tears burn my eyes because he’s erasing eight years with one kiss. We’re back in his rental listening to Lesley Gore sing “Misty.” Reality goes out the door. Life issweeter when days are filled with oldies on vinyl and afternoon delight.
