Page 47 of The Devil Gets His Due

I swallow. “We could just…stay married. If that’s something you wanted.”

Her fork falls to her plate with a crash. “Ifwhatis something I wanted? My father’s approval?”

I flinch. “No. Marriage. Look, I’d have brought it up before, but you seemed overwhelmingly hostile to…well…every aspect of this, so the timing wasn’t right. But if that’s something you want—”

Her jaw hangs open. “No. God.No.”

I roll my eyes. “Well, you managed to handle that with all the grace and diplomacy I’ve come to expect.”

She touches my hand. “It was…nice of you. But it’s not 1850. Being a single mother is totally normal and, obviously, I’d make a horrible wife.”

“You’re aware the qualities that make a good wife are probably the same qualities that make a good mother, right?”

“Like what?”

I shrug. “Cooking, cleaning, laundry…”

“Fuck you. I don’t even do those things for myself, so I’m sure as hell not doing them for aman. None of that is a wife’sjob.”

“So, what do you think a wife’s jobis?”

“Pretend to listen to your boring stories about actuarial tables,” she begins.

“I don’t use actuarial tables. I’m not sure how many times I have to tell you that.” I’m pretty sure she knows it by now and is just saying this to mess with me. At least I hope so.

“Fine, listen to your boring stories about whatever it is you actually do, tiptoe around you all afternoon after your football team loses a big game, provide frequent blow jobs and anniversary anal.”

“Anniversary anal?”

“You know, like once a year. It’s a thing.”

“I wasn’t aware that was a thing.” I’m fighting a grin and failing.

“You can’t do it too often or that area might not go back in place,” she argues. “So, you know, a few times a year. Anniversary, special occasions.”

“I wasn’t objecting to theinfrequencyof the anal sex. I was just surprised to hear it offered up so openly,” I say, finally giving in to the urge to smile. “But I’m thinking marriage to you might not be so terrible after all. Perhaps I was hasty.”

She throws a napkin at me and I laugh.

“Anniversary anal,” I say, taking our plates to the sink. “Where the fuck do you get this stuff?”

26

KEELEY

JUNE

We fall into something of a routine, and I guess I don’t hate it. Graham usually cooks, forcing me to help in small ways that won’t lead to the actual destruction of our meal. He insists we eat dinner at the table instead of watching TV. “Meals are when you get your kid to talk about his day,” Graham says, like he’s suddenlyThe Today Show’s parenting expert, but he might have a point. My mom had fond memories of eating on a TV tray with her dad and her sister each night, and so we did it, too, but that doesn’t necessarily mean it was ideal.

After dinner, we watch TV together and sometimes we read. When I tell him I want Pinkberry or Froot Loops, he’s willing to drive me. And yes, there are nights when I really wish I could just eat Hot Tamales and watchThe Bachelor, but there’s something about this too. I’ll miss it when it’s gone.

“What are you reading?” he asks. We are on the couch, my toes tucked beneath his thigh.

I glance at my phone. “‘Celebrity Kids who Could Stand to Lose Some Weight’.”

He laughs. “You’re making that up.”

“You clearly have no idea just how lowbrow my taste is.”

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