Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 130022 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 650(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 433(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130022 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 650(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 433(@300wpm)
Especially after the expression that took hold on his face earlier.
But that looked like what was about to happen.
“Yeah, son, see you Saturday,” Remy replied.
“Mrs. Coach, thanks for the food and letting me drink champagne, even underage,” Theo teased me.
I said nothing about the “Mrs. Coach,” which was both a respect and a nickname that all of Remy’s players had always called me.
When Remy had left, I had stopped doing some of the things I did as the coach’s wife.
But since I was a mom of one of the players, I’d never stopped going to matches.
Even so, that was the first time in years anyone had called me Mrs. Coach.
And the hit of nostalgia with Remy at my back in the house we’d raised our family felt too good.
“You’re welcome, Theo,” I murmured.
“I’ll be home before curfew, Mom,” Yves said, coming in to kiss my cheek.
Then, with no further ado, in fact looking like they were hustling, Theo and Yves were out the door.
I didn’t have time to blink, definitely not time to consider how much I liked Theo, before Sabre was in my space, kissing my cheek and saying, “I won’t be home before curfew because I’m crashing at Dad’s. But I’ll be over in the morning to pick up the trays. Love you and thanks for the grub.”
“Yeah,” Manon pipped. “You’re good to help Mom clean up?” she asked her father.
Oh no!
I opened my mouth.
Remy got there ahead of me. “Absolutely.”
“Awesome!” Manon cried, sounding oddly desperate. “I’ll be back in a few hours, Mom. Love you.”
No kiss from her because Sabre had her by the hand and was practically dragging her out of the house.
The door closed.
I looked to Remy. “When did Sah and Manon have the same high school friends they had to catch up with together when they were in town, as a matter of what seems apparent urgency?” I asked skeptically.
“I’ve learned there’s no way to keep up with them, so I don’t. I just go with their flow,” Remy answered, then started moving to the kitchen.
Okay.
No.
I rushed to follow him, stating, “You don’t have to help. It won’t take any time at all to sort this out.”
“Then it’ll be good it takes less when I help,” he replied.
Shit!
“Remy—”
“Also, I have something to tell you, and the kids shouldn’t be around when I do.”
Shit.
I stopped at the island and watched Remy glancing about the room.
Sabre hadn’t lied, Theo could pack it away, but there was still a ton of food left.
“You want me on dishes, or packing up the food?” Remy asked.
He was hopeless at food storage. Haphazard and prone to use Ziplocs, which I detested because I felt they should be used more than once, and as such, they needed to be cleaned in between, and that was annoying because it took forever for the insides to dry.
I gave in to him being there by saying, “Dishes.”
He nodded and started to collect glasses.
I went to the cabinet where I kept my plethora of food containers and tried to ignore this new hit of nostalgia: Remy and me, after a party, in the kitchen, sorting things out.
Remy’s gender divide didn’t include dishes, especially after a party.
Why?
Because Remy liked to be around me.
If he wasn’t home, until I made it perfectly clear things didn’t get done by housekeeping fairies, he just expected things to be done.
But if he was home, he didn’t like me away from him for very long. Which meant he didn’t mind the time it took me to switch out a load of laundry. But he’d eventually become an excellent sous chef, cooking at my side if he was there, and until we transferred that chore to the kids, we always did the dishes together.
I got out some suitable containers and asked, “Do you want to take some of this with you?”
He had his back to me and was at the sink when he answered, “Yeah.”
I started my process by loading him up with lobster rolls.
I also asked, hiding my trepidation because I’d then get an answer, “What did you want to talk about?”
“Myrna’s gone.”
My head shot up from packing the rolls.
“Remy,” I warned.
He turned to face me. “Hear me out.”
“This isn’t my business.”
“She pierced holes in my condoms.”
A wild rushing filled my head, which was not unfamiliar but had not happened often in my life.
The first time it happened was when Remy came home from work and told me one of the senior architects at his firm had taken credit for some of Remy’s designs.
The second time it had happened was when Manon’s second grade teacher called us in for a meeting and told us Manon was “flighty” and “slow,” she had trouble controlling her in class and may need to put her in special ed, and we had to work with her to get a lock on her “behavior problems” at home.