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“Don’t be. I know this is the hand I was dealt, and honestly? Being around you and seeing your confidence in me has been pretty eye-opening. So, thank you.” Her shy smile greets me as she reaches over and squeezes my hand, lacing our fingers together.
She has no idea what it means to me. To have her trust.
As I glance back to the road, she clears her throat. But when she tries to pull her hand away from mine, I hold on tight, refusing to let her go. She gives up on our little tugging match and rests our entwined hands on the center console.
“Long story short,” she continues, “I think it’s cool you’re listening to your daughters’ wants and needs and putting them ahead of your own.”
“I try. I’m gonna be honest with you, Kate. If it came to their health, you better damn well believe I’d be on them like white on rice to make sure they were taking care of themselves.”
A breath of laughter slips out of her as she glances at me and rolls her eyes. “Yeah, I know. And clearly, my parents are doing the same, so here I am.”
“Here you are,” I quip.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Is it weird? Dating someone close to your daughters’ ages?”
I hesitate, tapping my free hand’s thumb against the steering wheel as I consider her question. “Honestly?”
She nods.
“Being married to the wrong person puts into perspective what the right person looks like. And I don’t think age has shit to do with it. Are you kind? Are you considerate? Are you generous? Do you make me happy? Do we have fun together? Do we see eye to eye on most things? If the answer’s yes, what else matters? I know what I want, Kate. And I know what I don’t want. But overcomplicating the list with something as superficial as age?” I snort and pull into the garage. “As long as both parties are consenting adults, I don’t give a shit. The question is… Do you?”
Her lips lift softly. “Do I give a shit?”
“Yeah.”
“I guess not.”
She lets go of my hand, pushes the passenger door open, and heads inside my home like she’s always belonged there.
30
KATE
With my feet in Mack’s lap, the fire roaring across the room, and my stomach full of homemade chicken noodle soup Mack threw together as soon as we walked in the door, I’m a happy camper through and through.
He squeezes my feet, massaging them as I moan softly and snuggle into the cushions, my eyelids growing heavy.
“You like that?” he teases.
Fighting the urge to close my eyes and succumb to his perfection, I reply, “I’m having a foot massage by a hot guy after he fed me something he cooked himself while lounging on the most comfortable couch I’ve ever been on as a fire crackles in the corner. Yeah, I’d say I like this.”
“What else do you like?” he prods.
“I like your mom’s cookies,” I offer.
“And pumpkins spice lattes on campus.”
“And movies.”
“What kind of movies?” he questions.
“I dunno? I’m not too picky. Documentaries are always fun.”
“Documentaries?” He quirks his brow as if he can’t quite figure me out.
