Chapter 15 Roe Monroe #2
He doesn’t smile, not exactly, but the corners of his mouth twitch like he’s fighting it. Then he leans over, pretends to look at a bag of rice, and mutters, “You’re an idiot.” And he places the rice in the cart.
I grin and toss the oranges in after the rice.
We round the corner near the bakery aisle, and I brush against him—light, nothing obvious, but he leans into it. Just a bit. Enough to make my chest go stupid.
It’s not like we’re holding hands or anything, but I catch the little things. Thatcher likes affection.
He stands a little closer than necessary. He directs me toward things like I already know which brand to grab. He watches me out of the corner of his eye like I’m going to disappear if he looks away too long.
He likes this. Us. Even here.
He just doesn’t like them.
Because the second we get spotted—Mrs. Calloway again, because of course—it all changes.
“Oh!” she says, halfway through a conversation with someone near the onions. “There’s our town’s favorite lovebirds.”
Thatcher stiffens like someone pulled a cord in his spine.
I offer a smile. “Hey, Mrs. Calloway.”
She tilts her head. “You two shopping together now? How sweet. Should we expect a brunch invite next?”
I open my mouth to respond, but Thatcher’s already steering the cart away.
“Have a good one,” I say over my shoulder, jogging a little to catch up with him.
We get to the dairy case before he speaks again.
“She wasn’t even trying to be subtle,” he mutters.
“She doesn’t know how.”
He grabs a carton of eggs like it personally offended him.
“I don’t mind,” I say.
He looks at me. “I know.”
But he does. That’s the thing.
It’s not that he’s ashamed. It’s that he’s private. And here, in this town, being private isn’t an option—not when people measure your closeness by how many inches apart you stand in the bread aisle.
So I brush my hand against his as I reach for the milk.
He doesn’t pull away.
Doesn’t look at me either.
But when we get to the checkout, he slides his credit card across the counter and says, “You’re cooking tonight.”
I smirk, tapping my card faster than he does.
“That’s not necessary,” he protests, but I shrug him off.
“You’ve cooked for me how many times now? Let me grab the groceries.”
He relents. “You’re still cooking tonight.”
“You want to survive, you’ll help. And grab another bottle of wine.”
“I’ll supervise.”
“Fine. But I’m picking the music.”
He rolls his eyes, but there’s no heat in it. Just this quiet, worn-in kind of affection that feels too big for the space between us.
We get home, unload the groceries, and settle into the rhythm we’ve started to build.
He texts with Jamie, and we have the Knights’ game on low in the living room, occasionally checking the scores or the highlights, but I get the impression it’s so he can talk about it with Jamie more than anything.
I keep an ear out for how Dom—the rookie for the Knights—is faring. It’s still early season for the pro teams, but Dom’s been running hot and cold, oscillating between brilliant and someone Jamie’s team would put second line.
I turn my attention back to dinner, and mix shrimp in some sort of hot honey high-protein marinade Thatcher blended—literally blended in his own blender—while he chops up cucumber for our rice bowls.
And then . . . there’s a knock at the door.
The knock is light. Breezy.
Thatcher stiffens before he even moves. That tells me enough. The fact that he hesitates in moving toward the hallway tells me even more.
Thatch wipes his hands on the way to open the door, and I peek around the stairs to get a glimpse.
There she is—Liz. Or so I’m assuming by how all the parts of Jamie that don’t match with Thatcher line up with the woman at the door.
She’s all high-end loungewear and beachy hair, sunglasses pushed up like a crown, boutique bag dangling from her wrist like a statement piece.
I’m instantly reminded of the NAPH WAGs.
“Gabe!” She beams. “Surprise!”
Her voice has the pitch of someone playing a part they just decided on this morning.
“I figured it was time I came to be mom for a bit,” she says, stepping forward without waiting for permission. “I’m staying at the Inn. Just for a while.”
Thatcher doesn’t move aside. Doesn’t offer a smile. Doesn’t even blink.
“That’s . . . unexpected,” he says carefully.
“Well, let me tell you all about it. Do you have a drink? I’d kill for a bottle of water.” She rounds the corner about the same time I pick my knife back up.
Then she sees me.
Her smile stutters for half a second. “Oh. I didn’t realize you had company, Thatchy.”
Thatchy? Please.
I nod once. “Afternoon. Roe Monroe.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Liz, of course,” she says uncertainly, but she recalibrates fast, turning her gaze back to Thatcher. “Anyway, I brought Jamie something. Just a little something. It’s vintage—well, faux vintage, but still cute.”
She sets the bag on the table with the flourish of someone placing a prop.
Thatcher hasn’t moved closer to her. His body language hasn’t shifted. If anything, he looks more like a man holding steady against a tide he already knows how to outwait.
I glance between them and feel something press against my ribs from the inside. The urge to walk over and stake my claim is large, and I curse myself for not leaving a visible hickey on his neck when I could. I won’t be missing that opportunity a second time.
“Is Jamie not here?”
“He’s out with a friend.”
“Oh,” she says. And am I wrong in thinking that she looks a bit relieved but also sort of pissed? Like his absence has messed with her big arrival or something.
“You said something about staying a while?” Thatcher prods as he drifts closer to where I’m standing. His proximity eases the jealous monster beneath my skin. His eyes briefly meet mine and we share a look before he squeezes my hip and moves to get her the water she asked for.
“Well, yes,” she says with a smile, taking a drink of the water and grabbing a stool from the island to land on.
“I’ve been traveling and there was the most interesting woman next to me on the plane a few weeks ago who wouldn’t stop talking about her kids, and I just had this amazing thought .
. . Wow. That’s missing in my life. Like, I’m a mom, you know?
And I want that inspirational journey. It’s so important to me. ”
Thatcher doesn’t move a muscle and I choke a laugh with a drink of water.
“I just feel like I need to develop that side of myself,” she goes on, breezing past the awkward silence left in the wake of her words.
“I’ve done the retreats, the wellness, the Tuscany thing .
. . It’s time I focus on what really matters.
” She uses both hands to make a big gesture toward herself.
“I just need to lean into being a mother.” She makes a large sigh. “Mothering.”
Thatcher nods, like he’s seen this a million times before and is ready to do battle one more time.
“Yeah,” he says. “I can see where that would be something.”
I go back to preparing dinner. Anything to keep my hands busy as the realization that I’m in deeper than I thought slams into me with crystal clarity. I’m building something here—with him—that I don’t want disrupted. I don’t want her to fracture this tender beginning just by being allowed back in.
Liz keeps talking—plans to take Jamie for cocoa, maybe do drop-off one morning “if that’s still allowed”—all of it bright and glossy and just out of focus, like she’s narrating an Instagram story or choosing the captions for the pictures of parenting she’s creating in her mind.
It’s all a curated idea of what having a kid is like, but none of the delicate balancing and hard work that is Thatcher’s daily life.
I make a mental note to review her social media as quickly as possible.
“I’ll swing by tomorrow, okay?” she says finally, already moving off the chair and back toward the door, her empty water bottle left for someone else to deal with.
Thatcher just nods. “Sure. He has to be there at seven thirty tomorrow, if you are dropping him off.”
She blanches. “So early? Really?”
Thatcher shrugs. “You could pick him up from school. He gets out at three thirty.”
“I’ll do that, then.” She smiles.
“He has agility training at four and then practice at five thirty, and you’ll need to take him by Wickmans to replace some gear. And his friend Arch may need a ride.”
“Maybe you can text me all of that?” she asks hopefully.
“Sure.”
She flashes one last smile before slipping out.
When the door clicks shut behind her, the quiet feels heavier than it did before.
Thatcher exhales, slowly, and I wonder what I can do to protect him from the ticker-tape of emotions on his face.
“So that’s Liz,” he says, then catches my eye and we both give a kind of laugh. Not because something is funny, but because there really can be no other reaction.
“So.” I mimic his tone back, then spread my hands wide. “Mothering.” I say it with the same emphasis she did.
Gage grimaces. “Yeah. She has . . . phases? I was her blue-collar phase.”
“Not her boyfriend phase?” I ask, and he shakes his head quickly.
“No. We were together in the eyes of our friends, but it was very . . . distanced.”
He fills me in on the nuances of their relationship, such as it was, and I can’t help but shake my head. She was happy to leave him in his bubble, that’s for sure.
“Sounds like the sort of thing you might like,” I tease, but really, I want some reassurance. Because Liz’s breezy approach to life is light years from me.
“Then? Yeah. I thought it was having the best of both worlds—a relationship without getting too deep—but it wasn’t made to last, even with Jamie in the mix.” Thatcher sighs, leaning against the counter and pulling me to him. “I worry about Jamie the most.”
I nod, stepping in to kiss his worries away.