My hands stop in mid-cut, and I turn my head. He’s looking at me with a face full of apology.
“Why’s that?” I ask, trying to sound nonchalant about it, but I’m starting to drown in disappointment inside.
“The new distribution center is going live that week. I need to be there,” he says as he resumes cutting the onions.
My eyes prick with tears. I want to say it’s the close proximity to Zach’s work on the onions, but I know it’s not. It’s because I was really looking forward to having a few days alone with my husband. Where we could be wild, uninhibited, and focused solely on each other. We haven’t had that since Cannon was born. We hadn’t had it much prior to that between my work and Zach making his way through undergrad and his MBA studies. We’ve only had stolen moments like just now when he fucked me in the kitchen quickly before I could make stuffing.
“I’m so sorry, honey,” he says as he lays the knife down. He pulls me into his arms and even though I try to keep my face lowered, I know he sees the tears. “But we can go somewhere in January once it all settles down. I promise.”
I know that should be an easy alternative. Sure… we could go at a later time. It means we still have time together, but it also means that again, our marriage is coming in second. It means I’m coming in second, and at this very moment, I realize that I’m not just hurt, annoyed, or disappointed. I’m starting to feel a little bitter about it all.
Still, I do what Moira does best. I pull back, give him a confident smile, and tell him, “No problem. We can go later if we can work it out.”
He looks at me hesitantly for a moment, but then I clearly see the moment… it’s just a look on his face… when he accepts what I say. It’s a look of immense relief as he chooses to believe that this doesn’t hurt my feelings.
Chapter 10
Zach
Moira and I stand at our open door and wave goodbye to Josh and Lila as they walk to their cars, both of them carrying a brown paper bag filled with Thanksgiving leftovers. I have to admit… Moira called that one right. Within just a few minutes of them being introduced to each other, it became clear that there was deep interest and attraction. Lila twirled her hair a lot in flirtation when she talked to Josh, and Josh seemed to be riveted by what she was saying. He certainly didn’t hide the appreciative looks he kept giving her.
Moira and I kept sneaking knowing glances at each other across the table as we chowed down on turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, cranberry sauce, and corn pudding. By the time Moira served dessert—choice of pumpkin, pecan, or apple pie—Josh had already asked Lila out to dinner for the following evening.
My wife is fucking brilliant.
We watch just a moment as Josh walks Lila to her car and they stand close to each other while they talk, but then I pull Moira back into the house, shutting the door behind us. She gives me a knowing wink, places a hand on my hip, and says, “I’m sure we’ll be invited to the wedding.”
I smirk at her and lean down to give her a kiss. “Hell, their firstborn should be named after you… whether it’s a girl or a boy.”
Moira gives me a laugh and pushes back. “Go in and help Randall put away the pie. I’ll go get the kids bathed and into their pajamas.”
“Deal,” I tell her as I turn toward the kitchen.
It’s been a great day indeed.
It wasn’t an intimate family dinner like I’d wanted, but I ended up truly enjoying our company. All of my doubts about Lila were put to rest when I saw just how interested she was in Josh. It almost embarrassed me to think she could be putting moves on me, because as I watched her flirt, banter, and giggle at him, I realized she truly was being nothing but professional with me. It was nice to see the prospect of perhaps new love blooming at our table, and I’m always more than happy to have Randall with us because he’s the closest thing I have to family here.
While my adoptive father, Parilla, still enjoys relatively good health back in Amazonia, I haven’t seen him since before Moira and I got married, and sadly, I’m not sure I will see him again. I’m lucky Father Gaul still sends us updates when he can on my former Caraican tribe, but that’s about all I can count on as satellite phones and even snail mail are just not a possibility as deep in the jungle as they live.
When I walk into the kitchen, I see Randall bent over the apple pie, eating a forkful directly from the pan. He looks up when he hears me, flushes guiltily for just a second, but then unapologetically digs his fork back in.
“There’s only a little bit left,” he mumbles around a mouthful. “No sense in dirtying up another plate.”