Page 159 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight

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“Nope,” she snaps, cutting me off before I can tell her what she means to me. “No sappy stuff or you’ll face the wrath of pregnant woman tears.”

I’m smiling.

When a second ago, I wanted to cry, and thirty seconds before that, I wanted to throttle her.

Such is the power of Luna.

Shaking my head at the tiny tornado that is my friend—no, my family—I remind her, “I’m still mad at you.”

“You’ll get over it,” she says flippantly. “Is Gray flying out in the morning?”

“Yeah.” He needs to rejoin the team on the road trip.

“Right. Enjoy him”—her voice turns mischievous—“I’ll let you yell at me again later.”

Laughter bubbles up in my chest. “Deal.” Then before she can hang up, I say, “Luns?”

“Yeah, honey?”

“Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

I grin, somehow unsurprised at the rapid turn of events, thus just shake my head as I hang up.

Because I know she means exactly that.

“Babe,” Gray calls not much later.

“Yeah?” I say distractedly as I serve up lasagna.

“Yeah, want me to open this box for you?”

“Box?” I frown.

“The big one by the door.”

Oh, right. The box Bri brought in for me last night—or the one I hadn’t gotten around to opening yet, anyway.

“Did you do something else exceptionally sweet that’s going to make me cry and curse your name again?”

“No.”

But the way he says that sounds very much like…yes.

I grin.

Such a big, tough hockey player…and such a soft, soft heart.

“You can open it for me, honey,” I say, thinking he probably wants to give me whatever he bought me in person now that we’ve made up. “But then food’s ready, so let’s eat.”

“Got it.”

I hear cardboard tearing.

Then a strange hiss.

“Gray?” I call as I set down the spatula.

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