Chapter 35
Nolan
You’d think traveling with Eric would be exciting, but I find myself itching to get home the entire time.
Maybe it’s because I’ve been a CPO for so long.
I’ve gotten used to these types of trips with former clients.
It’s always somewhere nice, like Paris or Madrid.
Private jet, Michelin restaurants, expensive-ass hotels with nightly rates equivalent to a month’s salary.
But there’s never any off time to actually enjoy yourself.
Not when you spend the lead-up scanning the bowels of the internet for regional threats, planning driving routes, casing out hotel and event venue floor plans, and generally being on high alert for any potential risks.
It’s been two days, but I’m anxious the entire drive home, feeling like I can breathe again only when I pull into the driveway. I’ve never missed home. Until now.
Mom is sitting on the couch reading The Very Hungry Caterpillar with Maisey, Em’s youngest, tucked into her lap.
“Uncle Nono!” Maisey screams in that sweet, high-pitched little voice of hers. She flings herself off Mom’s lap and rushes to hug my legs. I take a couple minutes to play with her on the floor. I try peekaboo, though she specifically tells me she’s “too old” for peekaboo at three years old.
“This is what happens when you spend so much time away,” Emma calls from the kitchen.
“Oh, don’t listen to her. I barely remembered you were gone,” Mom quips playfully, coming to my defense.
She stands slowly, stabilizing herself on the side of the couch before pulling me in for a hug. I really fucking missed her.
“How are you feeling, Mom?” I mumble into her shoulder.
“A little tired today,” she admits. I ask what she did this morning, but she doesn’t remember. Instead, she pulls Maisey in for a tickle, and the two of them resume their book on the couch.
I head into the kitchen to find Emma on hands and knees, buried under a mountain of random sauces and spices scattered around the kitchen floor.
“Did you know Mom’s been trying to poison us?
” she asks, holding up a dusty jar of god-knows-what like evidence from a grisly crime scene before tossing it into the garbage.
I plunk into the chair closest to the stove. “Huh?”
She tosses a small canister of green powder at my chest. “Look at the expiration date of this oregano. It’s from 2012!” Indeed, the expiration date is May 2012. A relic.
“Slander! Spices don’t expire!” Mom calls from the living room.
“Oh really?” Emma plucks a bottle of balsamic vinegar from the floor, holding it up like she’s about to unveil a deep, dark family secret. “This balsamic expired six years ago. And you said Mom wasn’t a pack rat.”
“Hey, I never said she wasn’t a pack rat—just that she’s selective about what she hoards,” I argue.
Mom, still within earshot, fires back, “It’s called being prepared! You never know when you’ll need a dash of aged balsamic. It tastes better that way, in my opinion.”
“Sorry for the mess,” Emma whispers to me as she continues her archaeological dig through the pantry. “I want the place to be in sparkling condition for showings. Hard to make a house shine when the pantry looks like a scene from Hoarders.”
I laugh, catching another outdated spice jar she tosses my way. “Yeah, nothing says ‘buy this house’ like decade-old oregano.”
“In better news, did Mom tell you what Andi did?” Emma asks, gesturing to the fridge.
“No?” I poke my head in to find fresh produce and containers stacked and labeled.
Holy shit. I know how much she hates grocery shopping, and I also know how little free time she has.
I’d never even asked her to do that, or alluded to it, even though it was a task that was going to stress me out in the lead-up to Mexico.
It’s like she anticipated exactly what I’d need without me even voicing it.
I’ve never had that before. My heart swells with a mixture of gratitude and something I can’t quite put my finger on.
“Andi did this?”
“Sure did,” Mom says, entering the kitchen behind Maisey, who Emma has to coax not to touch the dusty pantry items. “Andi was absolutely wonderful company, by the way. Invite her back more often.”
Em’s eyes widen. “Speaking of Andi, I meant to tell you, I hired new staff. Met a couple girls from Ottawa at the convention who were looking for work.”
“That’s great news,” I say. I know how badly she needs reliable staff to help her out at the salon. “But what does that have to do with Andi?”
Em swings Mom a look. “It means I’ll be good to stay with Mom a couple days while you’re away. In Mexico!”
My stomach does some sort of nervous twist. “Em, you really don’t have to.”
“I insist. It’s no big deal.”
I shake my head, eyeing Mom. “I don’t know.
I don’t want to leave again.” As badly as I wanted to go to Mexico with Andi, the thought of leaving Mom so soon feels daunting.
It occurs to me now that, despite myself, I’ve actually been enjoying Mom’s company on her good days.
I enjoy our conversation, even if she can get on my nerves at times.
I’m not sure what changed with her over the years, or whether she’s always been this person deep down, but something about her energy is infectious.
“Nonsense. I’m not letting you. Consider yourself kicked out,” she says.
“Evicted,” Emma emphasizes, tossing me a yellow tube with a cartoon banana on it. “By the way, here’s some suntan lotion for Mexico. It only expired in 2009.”
· · ·
Seeing Andi again adds years to my life.
When I pick her up for the airport, I have to smother the temptation to run to her and jump up and down like a maniac.
I hug her tighter than I intended, taking in the fruity smell of her shampoo, the way she pops onto her toes with a little squeak, how she lets her lips graze my skin as she presses her nose into the nape of my neck.
That phone call was the only thing that kept me going. And I’ve had far too many long showers replaying it in my mind.
I can barely believe she’s finally here, within reach. Right in front of me.
I cup her face, strumming her jawline with my thumb for a heartbeat before tilting her chin upward. “I missed—”
Before I can finish that sentence, she presses her lips to mine.
It’s hard, desperate, the way her hands clasp each side of my face and beard, tugging me down toward her.
It’s like she’s needed this, needed me. I let her take whatever she wants as she slides her tongue against mine, coaxing a longing groan from deep within my throat.
When we pull back, she smiles up at me, her nose still grazing mine. She’s so fucking cute, I’m never letting her go.
Travelers dodge us and race past with their luggage around us in fast motion. But we stay rooted in place, frozen, my forehead resting against hers like we’re in our own sparkly snow globe. We stay like that for longer than it’s convenient, seeing as we’re late.
Apparently, it doesn’t matter. The flight to Mexico is a clusterfuck.
By the time we get through security and to the gate, we learn the flight is delayed due to a freak windstorm, forcing us to wait at the airport for an extra six hours before boarding.
It means we’ll be missing the first night and won’t arrive until early morning the day of the “non-wedding.” Then, we’re in middle seats sandwiched between two families with screaming children in front of and behind us.
Because of the delay, it’s a two-hour wait for another shuttle to the resort.
Regardless, it’s still enjoyable. We pass a lot of time working through plot holes and brainstorming for the book Andi’s working on.
There’s a lot of time I just sit there and watch her type on her iPad.
It’s magical, seeing her at work, witnessing the creative gears turning.
Sometimes, she’ll read me a passage she’s unsure about, her voice shaky and hesitant at first, but once she hits her stride, she loses herself in the flow of the words.
There’s nothing better than seeing her eyes light up when she slots a challenging puzzle piece of her story into place.
It’s contagious, the spark in her when she comes up with the perfect line of dialogue.
She’ll sit up straighter, her eyes narrowed, entirely in her element.
“You good?” I ask her as we pull into a narrow, palm-tree-lined lane leading onto the resort grounds. It isn’t lost on me that we’ve arrived at her ex-boyfriend’s wedding weekend.
She squeezes my hand. “Yeah. I’m actually excited. And on the bright side, we got to miss the awkward welcome mixer where everyone tries to act like it’s totally normal that I’m there,” she adds in consolation.
I tilt her an encouraging smile. “Remember, if you need me to fake food poisoning, or a grave injury, I’m game.”
She laughs and our eyes snag.
I think about what she said that one night, about how having a partner for all the good stuff isn’t even the best part.
It’s about the mundane times when all your plans go to crap.
Doing that flight alone would have been a fucking nightmare.
But it’s hard to stay annoyed or stressed for too long when I’m with her.