Chapter 29
SAM
Before I even open my eyes, I know I must be dreaming. I slept through the night—for the first time in months.
I turn my head and catch the faint scent of rosewater shampoo, Becca’s scent. I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, trying to hold onto this feeling for as long as I can.
Then I feel her arm slide across my chest.
When I open my eyes, I see a tangle of wild blonde hair spilled across me, her hand resting warm against my stomach. Becca is curled into my side, fitting perfectly like she always does.
Most people think Becca’s the kind of woman who doesn’t need anyone. And they’re not wrong. She rarely lets herself be vulnerable, even with me. But this? Her reaching for me in her sleep? This is a glimpse nobody else gets to see, and I’ll be damned if I ever let anyone else have it.
I stay in the moment a little longer, memorizing everything and how right it feels. I know last night didn’t magically fix the distance I created between us. I don’t know when I’ll be invited back into her bed again. So I bottle up this feeling, storing it for the next time I earn it.
Careful not to wake her, I ease my arm out from under her and reach for the pillow behind me. I slide it gently beneath her head. She barely stirs, still out cold.
As great as she always looks, I know she hasn’t been sleeping much either. I climb down the ladder into the small kitchen, smiling like an idiot.
She doesn’t know how much of the work I actually did in here. Sure, Jones handled the foundation and framing, but the rest? The flooring, light fixtures, and cabinet assembly? That was all me. Hell, I even made the butcher-block countertop myself and had Jones pretend it was included in the cost.
I open the fridge. Just as I thought—eggs, fruit, toast, turkey bacon—the basics. She must’ve caught the bacon on sale. She usually won't splurge on herself. That used to be my job, and I plan on it being my job again.
I pull out the ingredients and start making her favorite: poached eggs on toast. Becca never makes them for herself because, as she told me once, she’s usually too hungry in the morning to bother with perfecting a poach.
When we first started dating, I asked her how she liked her eggs. That night I went home and cooked an entire carton just to learn how to make them perfect for her.
I’m finishing up the bacon when I hear the ladder creak behind me. I glance up and damn near lose my balance.
Becca’s climbing down in my old U of O shirt, the hem barely skimming the curve of her ass. She turns, gives me a smile that hits me like a punch to the gut.
How did I ever get so lucky?
And how the hell did I ever let myself mess this up? I shake the thought away, knowing I can’t undo what I’ve done.
Becca crosses to the kitchen, peeking over my shoulder at the bacon.
“Don’t you know you’re not supposed to cook bacon naked?” She gives my ass a playful smack on her way to the coffee pot.
I grin. Her teasing, her ease, it lights me up—something I haven’t seen in too long.
“My shirt’s still wet from last night,” I say, plating her breakfast and setting it down on the tiny dining table.
Her eyes widen when she sees the plate, and she dives in like she hasn’t eaten in days. Between mouthfuls, she says, “Thank you, Sam. I don’t know why I’m so starving this morning.”
I can’t help myself and say, “I do.” Shooting her a wink as she flushes but keeps eating.
We eat together in quiet comfort, and for a second, everything feels easy. Like maybe we really are on the way back to each other.
Then my phone starts ringing.
We both glance around, trying to remember where we tossed it last night. Becca finds it first, but her face falls the second she looks at the screen. She holds it out to me without a word.
“It’s Holly,” she says, attempting a neutral expression.
And just like that, I see it. The way her shoulders tense. The way her eyes drop back to her plate. The way she shuts the door on me, not all the way, but just enough to feel it.
I realize she’s bracing for this, for me to prioritize Holly over her again. That just because the money matters are resolved, she doesn’t know I won’t keep putting her on the back burner.
I grab the phone and set it between us, putting the phone on speaker. I want there to be full transparency between us, no more secrets. I hit answer.
“Hey Holly, what’s up?”
“Hi, I know it’s the weekend, but I was hoping you could help me. I realized the paint color I picked just isn’t giving the right aesthetic. So I picked another one that I know will be great. Can you come out today so I know it will be dry by tomorrow?”
I see Becca put down her fork and knife, clearly uncomfortable with the conversation. And it hits me that this scene has happened before. Becca and I, enjoying time together from our busy schedules, and something pulls me away, so often it’s Holly.
“Holly, no, I am not coming by today. If you want to change the paint color, I left painting supplies at the salon. There are tons of online tutorial videos on painting. Go ahead and watch a few, and I will help you with any fixes when I come back in.
“Uh … sure,” Holly answers uneasily, but then gathers herself. “You’re right, I can do this! I don’t need to ask my big brother to paint a wall, I got this. Sorry to bother you, enjoy your weekend!” She hangs up with determination.
I feel the guilt in me start to creep in. I see her struggling. What if she slips while standing on a ladder? The fixer in me wants to jump in and help.
But then I look up and see my wife, and instantly my desire to fix something shifts to her. What hurts the most from the look on her face? The disbelief. She doesn’t expect me to stay with her.
Becca doesn’t say anything right away, only nods as if she’s filing it away.
Becca grabs our plates and heads to the sink to do the dishes. “You can go see her … you usually do. Besides, I have a lot to do anyway; I’m sure she will need your help.”
Ouch, I’m being kicked out the next morning by my wife like an unwanted booty call.
“If you want me to go, I understand. But first, I’m going to do the dishes.” I gently grab her hips and move her to the side. “Then, I’m going to fix this skylight. I’ll stay out of your way as best I can in this sardine box.”
“Hey!” Becca slaps me lightly on the chest. “I think it’s cozy, romantic even.”
I lean closer to her ear and whisper, “Definitely romantic. Especially the candlelit dinner I had last night.”
She tries not to laugh as I kiss her cheek and keep washing and drying the dishes. She’s speechless for a minute, wanting to figure out how to put space between us, but I stop her in her tracks.
“Go ahead and take a shower. I will clean up here.” I can see the war in her eyes, desperately wanting to shower while wanting to get me out of her space.
“Okay, I’ll go get ready then.” She walks off, grabbing her clothes from the small cabinet and drawer next to the bathroom. When she closes the door, I get to work tidying up.
Thank goodness it’s a small space, because it looks like a disaster. I find a small wet jet mop and start cleaning the floors, then tidy up the couch before finishing up in the kitchen.
Becca walks out and eyes me. “I’d buy that.”
What? Did my wife just offer to purchase me?
“Uh, buy what exactly?” I ask, searching for clarity.
“That calendar. Sexy men cleaning.”
I laugh loudly, unexpectedly. “Baby, I will make one for every day of the year, but only for you.”
She smiles, but it doesn’t quite meet her eyes, not yet.
The laughter fades naturally, the way good moments always do. And I watch her remember where we are. I can feel the room getting colder as she puts distance between us.
“Thanks for breakfast, Sam. And for … last night.”
“You never have to thank me for being there for you, baby.”
“I know, but still. Since we are in this … complicated status.”
I don’t want to think about our marriage as a downgraded Facebook relationship status.
“I don’t expect this to be simple,” I say. “I just want the chance to do it right.”
She looks at me like I said the stupidest thing in the world.
“No, I’m serious. I can’t go back and unbreak your trust. I wish I could. So, let’s go back to the time when I hadn’t earned it yet, and I will earn it back all over again.”
“It’s not that simple, Sam! You don’t get to rewind us like that,” she exclaims. “You changed something.”
She exhales harshly, trying to collect herself. “Then don’t mess it up again.”
I don’t plan to, not this time.