“I’d like to be there for one of them.” There is a shyness in her voice that I’ve never heard before.
I nearly drop my glass. “What do you mean?”
“I’d…I’d like to fly out and visit. Would that be okay? A week or so from now?”
At first, I panic about how much work I’d like to get done before that, but surprisingly, I am equally struck by how much I want to see her.
So, maybe I can balance both.
“Two weeks from now?” I suggest. “Then, you can be here for Sunday brunch the next day.”
“Of course. Whatever works for you.” My mom’s usual flat tone has faded, her voice now soft and sincere. “It’s going to be great to see you. I’ve really missed you.”
When we hang up, I finish my wine and pace for a bit, trying to process our call, trying to decide how I feel about it. I settle onhopeful. That’s, well, good enough for now.
Before I have even left the kitchen, I’ve yanked off my shirt. By the time I’m in the bathroom upstairs, I’m nearly undressed, and it’s seconds before I further strip down and step into the steam.
After water has crashed over us for some time and I’ve scraped my hands over Danny’s tanned skin more times than I can count, after I have dropped to the tiled floor, and after he has groaned solidly and lifted me up from my knees and shut off the water, I finally speak. “I know what I want.” My lips press against him with a fervor that ignites us both again, my tongue hot against his.
“I know one thing you want,” he says with a smile as he pulls back. “And you’ll get that. But what else do you want? You talked to your mom.”
He knows me too damn well, and I let him wrap us in towels and ease us to the bedroom.
“She’s coming here in a couple of weeks. I really want the kitchen to be done. And the living room painted. And the stairs all set with new banisters.”
“It’s not a problem.”
I love how he grabs one of his T-shirts from a drawer that I insisted he take, how he raises my arms, and how he pulls it over my body before I can say a thing.
“Don’t even worry about it. We’ll get that impossibly beautiful kitchen done.”
“It’s a huge ask—”
“It’s not,” he assures me. “The kitchen is small. Everything is ordered. Paul and I can finish that room off in days. Painting? Pfft. We’ll knock that out. You might want to cut out of here for a day or more while it all dries, if only to avoid the smell and shit from demolition. I havenoidea where you can stay, so that’s gonna be a whopping problem. Perhaps there’s a motel room somewhere? Or you could pitch a tent in the yard?” he suggests as he tickles my waist.
“I’m at a loss. I’ll obviously be homeless for a while.”
Then, he’s got me on my back, and he’s burying his hands in my hair as he eases my legs apart.
“We’re gonna kill your kitchen. Redo the shit out of it. And your living room. That’s a promise.”
