Page 71 of The Pocket Pair

The concern in his voice makes emotion swell and flood my chest. Because I want his concern. But not the friend’s older brother kind of concern. Not just friend concern.

No—I’d like stake-your-claim, possessive and proprietary kind of concern. The all-consuming, never-ending kind. I’d like the kind of concern that has him growling Mine when anyone else comes near.

Chevy leaves my feet long enough to grab a few takeout menus from the kitchen. We decide on Chinese. With the order placed, Chevy starts The Fellowship of the Ring, then settles back down with my feet in his lap, now softly rubbing rather than a full massage. By the time Frodo and Sam are setting off on their journey with the ring, the food has arrived, and Chevy has set up plates on the coffee table.

“Did you know Mr. Silver fostered kids?” Chevy asks, taking a bite of orange chicken.

“Definitely not. I never in a million years would have imagined him doing something like that.” I shake my head, remembering the way he spoke to the boys firmly but with kindness, and how they all responded with respect. “But he sure seems to be doing a good job. Also shocking.”

“Yeah.” He’s quiet for a minute. “But he’s not very nice to you.”

I consider this as I take a bite of my egg roll. Up until this week, I would have quickly agreed. No question. No thinking about it. But ever since he offered up his studio space, I’ve been seeing our interactions through a different lens, wondering if I’ve been reading things wrong all this time. Reading him wrong.

On the surface, Mr. Silver is brusque and yeah, maybe even rude. Underneath that though, I’ve started to see little signs of a gruff kindness now that I’m looking for them. Seeing him with the boys only solidified my suspicion that he’s a grump with a heart somewhere under the surface.

“He’s not so bad,” I say.

“I think you could see the good in anyone, Tiny. And I think you also bring out the goodness in them.”

His compliments make me too choked up to even thank him.

“So, is art what drives you? That’s what you want to do with your life?” he asks.

Big conversation to have when my head feels soft and spongy, but I’m not going to say no. “One of the things. But even more than being an artist, I want to be a mom.”

I glance at Chevy warily, half-expecting him to be tensed and ready to run. Instead, he just watches me carefully.

“I love art and will always paint, but I want to build a family—the kind I wanted and never had. Not to say that Mari didn’t do an amazing job,” I add quickly.

“She really did,” Chevy says quietly. “For me and Winnie too.”

I know he’s thinking about his mom, and I lean over and pat his knee, giving him an encouraging smile.

“Anyway, that’s what I want. Art and family. How about you?”

Chevy wipes his mouth with a napkin and takes a long sip of water. “I’m not sure,” he says. “I love my job, but outside of work … I’m still figuring things out.”

I try not to be disappointed by his answer, and I think he can tell that I am, because he offers me a typical Chevy smile, dimples on display, and then carries my empty plate to the kitchen. He’s figuring things out, I tell myself. That’s a good thing. That’s a step.

Toward what, I don’t know. But I can hope it’s toward me. Toward us.

I can hear him washing plates and putting them in the dishwasher. He’s not the kind of person who can just let dirty dishes sit out. I’ve always known Chevy was clean, but living with him has only emphasized his tidy tendencies. I appreciate the care and concern he takes for his things—and for his people.

When he returns, he settles back on the couch next to me. Now that I’m sitting up instead of lying down, there’s no excuse for us to touch. Well, guess what? I’m not waiting for an excuse. Grabbing the blanket, I scooch closer and, like some kind of stray cat looking for a new home, snuggle right up against Chevy until he’s basically forced to put his arm around me.

I regret nothing.

As he presses play and we continue watching the hobbits’ journey, I’m more focused on the steady thump of Chevy’s heart and the weight of his arm over my shoulders. After a few minutes, he relaxes a bit, letting his hand trail up and down my arm over the blanket.

“Who’s going with you to take Mari to the airport?” he asks.

The question comes out of nowhere, and considering my intense denial regarding this particular topic, it’s like Chevy’s opened up the door of an Alaskan cabin, letting frigid winds blow inside. Way to kill the mood, man.

“Just me.”

“Remind me of the day and time?”

He says this like we’ve discussed it already, which we definitely haven’t. See again: me trying to avoid thinking or talking about Mari actually leaving. I’ve been stopping in the diner sometimes three times a day just to see her, to commit the sight of her behind the counter to memory. I’m not sure I’ll be able to eat there again after she goes. But of course, I’ll have to support Big Mo, so I know I will.

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