Page 51 of Hearts on the Mend

“You can’t be serious,” I snap as he backs down the driveway, gripping his open mug of coffee in one hand. “You drive around with an open cup of coffee? Nolan, that’s psychotic behavior.”

He drums his fingers over the steering wheel, looking first at me, then the E on the gas gauge. I ignore him, instead focusing on the sparrows he has etched into his skin on each hand. Could look at them almost as long as I could stare at his corded forearms, unfortunately hiding underneath his flannel and Carhartt jacket right now.

“Like how you drive around on an empty tank? It’s not a suggestion, Cass. You need to keep it filled up.”

I gawk at him before a frustrated groan rips out of my throat. “I was tired last night.”

Everyone falls quiet, and it’s just the sound of the Jeep’s heater blasting and the morning DJs making small talk about the New England weather on the radio.

A few minutes later, as we navigate the messy back roads toward school, Nolan grunts. “This handles like shit in the snow. You need new tires.”

“I know,” I say at the exact time Ruby says, “That’s a bad word,” from the back seat.

I need new tires, a new bra, a fucking vacation. Maybe a new life.

Just one more thing to pile up on my list. It feels impossible to win at anything lately. Maybe that’s just another thing about motherhood everyone gatekeeps—there is no getting ahead.

“If you’re not going to take care of yourself, then I will.”

That’s rich coming from the man who is so emotionally shut off he might as well be… well, I don’t know. The point is, I’m not going to feel bad about it when he can’t even smile at me. Since Career Day, he seems to have a chip on his shoulder and is extra grumpy. And he’s busting his ass to get work done in the house without a single complaint. A part of me is convinced he’s trying to finish early so he can leave before April.

“Mom is a strong, independent woman who can do hard things,” Ruby adds from the back seat. “She takes care of everyone.”

“She’s the bravest,” Nolan adds before taking another sip of coffee.

I wipe at my eyes, thankful we’re pulling into the drop-off line at school. The sooner she’s at school, the sooner I can head home and disappear from Nolan. He has his space, and I have mine. Rules, remember? I forgot for a bit, and it just made everything messy.

We stop at the hardware store to pick out paint chips for the bathroom before we head back to the house. I tried shaking off the way the cashier was eyeing the two of us, more annoyed that Nolan paid for the gallons of primer before I could stop him, then just hopped back into the driver’s seat.

It might be the hottest thing to watch him steer one-handed, not spilling a drop of his coffee.

Okay, fine. Since Career Day, I’ve been pissy too. I’m not sure how I can be so simultaneously attracted to someone and hate them at the same time, but I do.

I turn the heat down on our way home, my cheeks stinging from the vent blowing on my face. Apparently, I’m a masochist because I’m never warm in my house. I’ll allow myself to burn while driving if it means I’m extra toasty for a few minutes.

Otherwise, it’s quiet. Tension brews between us, and with each sip of his coffee, it ratchets up another notch. I swear my eye is twitching.

“Thanks for driving,” I say as we slip up the driveway. The ice isn’t helpful.

“No problem.”

As soon as I hop out, he throws the Jeep into reverse and parks it at the bottom of the driveway, then storms up toward the barn for the snowblower as I let myself in.

I know him well enough not to ask. So when I hear the snowblower start up as I make myself a second cup of coffee in the kitchen, that same wave of butterflies hits my stomach. I didn’t even have to ask, didn’t need to tell him I was going to try to figure it out myself once he got to work upstairs in my bathroom.

The dumb doorbell shrills just as I plop a bite of banana bread into my mouth. I jump from my seat at the table, more than a little annoyed to put aside my book before I spot two silhouettes behind the lace curtain on the front door.

“Hi, did you order Taskrabbits for today?”

Sloane Arden stands there, her long brunette hair tucked neatly underneath a white Merritt’s Catch beanie with a stitched lobster across the front, a navy peacoat, and aviators. Beside her stands a woman with curly pink hair who instantly passes the vibe check on that alone.

I grip the door, swinging it wider for them to come inside. Nolan struggles with the snowblower at the end of the driveway, slipping over the ice in his work boots. I say struggling, but it looks more as if he’s about to hurl the heavy machine into the field on the opposite side of the road.

“This is my best friend, Sarah Angello. She’s a painter, so obviously, she was up for the challenge of today.”

“Hi.” She waves back at me, peering down the hallway.

I was feeling optimistic the other day and bought a few houseplants to decorate. Humans, I can handle, but plants? I kill them nearly every time. A new braided runner I ordered arrived too, but that floorboard still squeaks.