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My dad talked her through the financial viability of being an influencer.
Brit got her pillows and blankets situated just right before taking off for the rink.
Now, though, Queen Rox has settled into the deep sleep of a kiddo who’s recovering from surgery.
I’ll poke my head in later, but I know that she’s officially down for the count.
And…the Gold game is on in a few minutes.
I flick off the light, walk out into the hall, and head downstairs. The kitchen lights are on, but the room is empty—even though the delicious smell of something spicy and savory hangs in the air. The soft rumble of the TV draws me to the family room and I see that Tiff has left a plate on the coffee table for me, along with a can of beer.
My heart warms at the sight, knowing this is Tiff’s way of caring—cooking more food, ensuring Brit and I make up for the missed meals at the hospital, doing something to keep busy when times are tense.
She looks up when I come into the room, eyes shifting away from the TV and the pregame programming for the Gold. “I figured you’d want to watch.”
Because I always watch—a fucking glutton for punishment.
She clears her throat. “I’ll, uh, take off once I finish eating and cleaning up?—”
“You don’t have to go,” I tell her softly.
She freezes with her own can of beer halfway to her mouth. “Yeah,” she says softly. “I really do. Brit?—”
“Isn’t part of this conversation.” I sit down on the couch and pull the plate toward me.
Tiff snorts. “This is her house.”
“Yes,” I mutter, “and she told you to stay as long as you want.”
“I think I’ve already overstayed my welcome.”
“Brit isn’t like that,” I remind her. “She knows that you and Roxie are important to each other.”
Tiff sighs and looks away, but doesn’t engage further, just finishes her dinner and her beer, takes my empty plate from me when I finish.
“You don’t have?—”
She waves me off and turns for the kitchen. A minute later, I’m listening to the sounds of the water running, to the dishwasher being loaded.
Then the water cutting off.
The door to the dishwasher closing.
I get up before she can scoot out the front door without saying goodbye, catching her in the hall, purse in hand, guilty look on her face.
What’s with my life being full of difficult women?
A thought I obviously keep in my own head as I take her coat from the rack, hold it up for her to slip her arms into.
But I don’t let her walk away when it’s on.
Instead, I draw her back against me, hug her tightly. “You are not what your mom says you are.”
She shudders but doesn’t fight my hold. “I’m not so sure about that,” she whispers. “I mean, look at what I’m doing with my life.”
“Going to school? Working?”
“And leaving her to—” She exhales, shakes her head, pushes at my arm around her middle.
