Page 63 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight
Measuring cups, spoons, and scrapers are intermixed with potholders and kitchen towels. And paper towels because I’ve been using those liberally as well.
It’s a disaster.
And Faye’s seeing it.
For a second, I don’t breathe.
It’s not so much the mess that undoes me—it’s the look on her face…and the shame washing over me.
Christ, if Courtney had found me like this—hell, if Courtney had found me baking at all—the amount of shit she’d give me…
Astronomical.
My parents would give it to me too.
Not that they’re bad people.
They just…have boomer-era views on the proper things that men and women should be doing.
To clarify:
Playing hockey—men.
Baking—women.
As for my teammates…
Their hockey captain baking banana—and failing?—yeah, that would be prime shit-giving territory.
And now Faye’s standing in the opening to the kitchen, pajamas rumpled, hair sleep-mussed, mouth fallen open in surprise.
Looking fucking adorable.
And gorgeous.
And mine.
But I’m bracing, watching her face as she shifts, shoving her hair back from her face, and then starts forward, moving toward me, lips curving, mouth opening.
Fuck. Preparing to give me shit.
Only when her words come out, they’re not that.
They’re…completely different.
“I fell in love with you four years ago.”
The mixer is still going and she reaches over, turns it off.
Leaving us in silence, the smell of burned sugar hanging in the air, something like triumph—and maybe a bit of discomfort—churning through my insides.
No one has ever said that to me before—not like that.
It’s always me deciding to take the risk, the women in my life accepting what I have to give.
Or oftentimes, not.
“I saw you in this kitchen”—a nod toward the window—“right through there. Our houses were mirrors of each other and I looked up, saw you in this room and…fell in love. You were smiling, laughing at something and everything in me just realigned. And that fantasy, the fantasy of you was something I held tight to, something I wrote about and dreamed about.” She sighs, closes the distance between us, and touches my jaw. “But you’re even more wonderful than the fantasy I fell in love with.” A chuckle. “Which is terrifying, I admit. But”—her teeth press into her bottom lip, cheeks flaring bright pink—“I think…if that doesn’t completely send you running for the hills then maybe we could kiss some more?”
