Page 30 of Better Daddy
He frowns at me. “Yeah. Lo hates her, but she’s gotten better over the last month. Like I said, no certified mail to the deli.” He chuckles like I should find this funny.
“Right.” I fake a smile. “Small wins.” As an old pain flares to life in my chest, I turn toward the passenger window.
Dammit, Sloane.
I need to get a handle on these thoughts of mine. Why do I care if Amy works in Sully’s office? We’re getting divorced. His personal life is no longer my concern. And for the first time in months, we’re getting along. I should be thankful we’ve made it to this point.
My stomach does this weird twisty thing, though, when I imagine Sully signing the papers. And when I think of how Amy is probably waiting for that to happen, I have to fight the urge to double over. She’ll probably be the one who files them for Brian, and she’ll wear a big smile when she does. Then she’ll stalk into my husband’s office, wearing a low-cut dress, and ask him out to dinner. He’d have no reason to say no. By then, he’d owe me nothing. Meanwhile I’ll be pregnant and at home, likely on bed rest.
“Sloane?” Sully’s voice pulls me from my inner ramblings. When I turn to look at him, his face is etched in concern. “Are you okay?”
I dip my chin. It’s a lie. And pretending is becoming harder every day. I nod once more but follow it up with a shake of my head. “No.”
He grips the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles whitening, and inspects me between glances at the road. “What’s wrong?”
“I never liked the way Amy looked at you.”
His lips tug down as he glances in his rearview mirror. “Intern Amy? That’s what this is about?”
My cheeks heat with shame, but I’m tired of hiding my every thought. We’re having another child. We live together, even if it’s temporary and under duress and with far too many roommates. We’ll spend the next eighteen years co-parenting, and if we’re going to be successful, then we need to learn to communicate better.
“Yes.” I blow out a breath as we inch forward in traffic. “Be honest with me, please. You said you never cheated?—”
Sully growls, the steering wheel creaking as he grips it tighter. “I haven’t so much as looked at another woman since I met you.” Though he keeps his eyes on the road, the pain radiating from him pummels into me.
I ignore the sensation, pulling my shoulders back. “Until we separated.”
With a grunt, he turns the wheel, maneuvering the car to the shoulder, and slams the gearshift into park. When he turns to face me, his slate blue eyes are molten and his breaths are ragged. “Never. Not since the day you walked into torts wearing that black and redplaid skirt and a turtleneck. I heard you laugh. You were talking to your friend—” He closes his eyes like he’s trying to conjure her name.
“Samantha,” I supply.
His eyes fly open and he gives a jerky nod. “Yes. Her. I heard you laugh and my heart went up my goddamn throat. I knew in that moment I would marry you. I knew I’d spend the rest of my life chasing that sound.” He shakes his head, frustration rolling off him. “Sweetheart, I know I’ve fucked up. You haven’t made that sound in far too long, and that’smy fault. But I swear on everything I have, those feelings have never gone away. They’ve never even dimmed. There isn’t a woman who holds a fucking match, let alone a candle to you.”
My heart races in my chest not only at his words but at his delivery. At the way he’s staring at me, like he’s trying to imprint what he’s saying onto my brain. Into my heart.
And dammit, it’s working. I trust him. Fuck, do I hate myself for it. He’s being honest. He feels all those things. I just don’t think we can find our way back to being the people we were back then.
I close my eyes, unable to handle his intense gaze. “I believe you. We should, uh, get back on the road.”
When I find the courage to look at him, he’s checking his mirrors and merging back into traffic. I steal glances every minute or so as we make our way toward the tunnel, and with each passing mile, he relaxes a little. By the time we’re out of the Lincoln Tunnel, he’s smiling.
Only now does it hit me that I can’t remember the last time he smiled. Genuinely smiled, not the forced expression that makes him look like he’s snarling. I study the way his lips lift, the curve of his shoulder when it’s no longer tense. I focus on his fingers as he taps to the beat of the music still playing quietly.
“Why do you seem happier?” I worry I’ll start an argument, but I have to know.
My husband turns to me, wearing a full on grin. “Because you, sweetheart, just gave me hope.”
“Hope?” A huff of a laugh escapes me.
“Yes,” he says, one side of his mouth hitching up higher. “You were jealous.” His eyes dance, the once stormy irises now a brighter blue. “And if you’re jealous, I’ve still got a shot.”
I blow out a breath, my brain short-circuiting. Damn this man. He’s right. I was jealous. And yeah, after this conversation, I, too, am feeling a hint of that wistfully scary emotion.
For the rest of the drive, we stick to humming along to familiar songs. It’s better this way. Safer. It ensures we don’t ruin the tentative truce we unwittingly agreed to.
When we step into the apartment, dinner is already on the table. The rest of the night moves at lightning speed, full of chatter and homework and table tennis. The kids con the guys into three rounds while Lo and I clean the kitchen.
While the boys take showers and the guys play pool, I change into five layers of clothes in preparation for bed. I’ll start the night sweltering, but it’s necessary, and five seemed to work well last night. This morning I woke up to a pile of sweatshirts on the floor, but I was still dressed, so I’ll take that as a win. Though overnight, I managed to leave the bedroom and hang a pair of pants in the coat closet without waking anyone. It’s wild.
