Chapter 18
Mason
I pull into our empty driveway just after six, which is weird. Megan didn’t say anything about having plans tonight. The lights are on inside though. My guess is she left them on all day. She does that a lot.
I head in and find her in the kitchen, hair up, flannel sleeves pushed to her elbows, stirring something on the stove like nothing’s out of the ordinary.
“Oh— Hey,” I say, slipping my boots off. “Where’s your car?”
She keeps moving, pulling a utensil from the drawer. “It wouldn’t start.”
I stop short. “What?”
“It wouldn’t start. I don’t know. It’s still at school.”
My chest tightens. “How did you get home? Sierra?”
“No, she already left. Trevor drove me. You know he doesn’t live too far? He said—”
“Megan.”
She looks at me, brows knitting together. “What?”
“Why didn’t you call me?” The question comes out sharp.
She stares at me. “You’ve had a rough week, babe. I didn’t want to—”
“So?” My jaw tightens. “I don’t care if I’m on the moon, Megan. You call me.”
“I know,” she says quickly. “I just thought—”
“I’m your husband,” I say, cutting her off again. Trying to stay calm. “That’s literally my job.”
Her shoulders drop. She fiddles with her hands, eyes on the counter.
“I’m not mad,” I lie. “I just…it doesn’t feel great knowing your first call wasn’t me. And then not even finding out until I get home? That stings.”
“I’m sorry,” she says softly. “I just thought I was being helpful. Taking care of it myself. I wasn’t thinking.”
“I want to be your go-to for everything. Not just emergencies. All of it—the annoying, inconvenient, dumb stuff. That’s marriage to me, Meg. I want you to need me.”
“Mason, I do need you,” she says, voice quiet. “I just thought maybe you needed not to be needed today.”
That stops me.
I shake my head. “No. Never with you.”
She exhales, like she’s been holding it in. “Okay. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I say, even though it isn’t. It will be, just not yet.
The sting settles low in my chest, part jealousy, part hurt, part something I don’t quite want to name. I know it’ll fade. Probably by morning. But right now it lingers.
She gives me a hug, telling me she’s sorry again, and I remind her I love her.
We move around the kitchen quietly as she finishes up with dinner, and I try to shake off the last of the tension.
The sting’s fading, softening under the normal rhythm of us.
The clatter of silverware. The smell of seasoning. Megan humming to herself.
Maybe I’m just tired, still caught up in yesterday’s near-death experience. And maybe this is one of those stupid, tiny moments in marriage that only matters because we love each other too much.
I wash my hands and hang my utility belt up before sitting down at the table to eat. It smells promising, so that’s good.
I reach my hand across the table. Her fingers slide into mine, soft and warm. Her thumb brushes once over my knuckle, and that alone pulls the rest of the weight off my shoulders.
I bow my head, squeezing her hand gently. “Lord, thank You for getting us through this week, for keeping Megan and I safe. Thank You for this meal, for our home, for our marriage. Help us to be able to rest and reconnect this weekend. In Your Name we pray. Amen.”
“Amen,” she whispers, lifting her head and reaching for the food.
“It’s gonna be a good weekend,” she says. “I can feel it.”
“Yeah? Me too.” I smile, grabbing the big serving spoon and dishing the chicken onto my plate. Then I scoop up the mac and cheese with peas. It actually looks good. Which means nothing. I’ve been fooled before.
I start with the mac and cheese. First bite…okay. Edible. Definitely edible. A little grainy. A little gritty. But at this point in our marriage, I’ve had worse.
“It’s good, sweetheart. Thank you,” I say truthfully, moving on to the chicken.
She watches me take the bite. Watches me chew. Watches me chew again. And again. And again.
Her eyes narrow. “Be honest. I know how fussy you are with meat.”
I laugh. “Well…it’s a little dry, but it’s fine. Better than raw.”
And internally I pray she never finds out how close I am to needing a glass of water just to swallow this thing.
“Oh really? I did it to the temperature it said.”
My chewing slows. “What did it say?”
“Two sixty-five.”
I blink. Hard. “For chicken?”
She nods with full confidence, like she’s quoting scripture.
I try not to make it a big deal. “It’s one sixty-five for chicken.”
“Mmm, no,” she argues.
“Yes it is, babe.”
“Well, that’s not what the recipe said.”
“Show me,” I dare. She stares at me like she can’t believe I’m arguing.
She pushes her chair out, her ponytail waving back at me while she fetches her phone from the counter. I sit back, folding my hands. Waiting. Because I know I’m right.
Not even five seconds later, I hear her groan. A low, defeated, irritated little sound that tells me I’ve won without even looking.
She turns, glaring daggers at me.
I grin. “I love you, sweetheart.”
She crosses her arms. “Love you too,” she mutters.
A diesel pulls into the driveway as we clean up dinner, headlights sweeping across the floor for a second before disappearing.
“Who’s that?” Megan asks.
“Cody.”
I know something’s wrong before he even knocks.
I open the door and one look at him confirms it—jaw tight, shoulders tense, like something’s been eating at him all day and he finally ran out of room to carry it.
“Hey,” he says. “Can I come in?”
“Yeah,” I answer, already stepping aside.
Megan comes into view behind me. Cody’s eyes flick to her, then back to me. He doesn’t say a word, just exhales through his nose.
“Meg,” I say gently, “can you give us a minute?”
She doesn’t argue. Just nods once. “Sure.” Then she heads upstairs, quiet.
Cody scrubs a hand over his beard. “I need you to store my guns for a while.”
My stomach drops, chest tightening, but I don’t hesitate. I just nod. “Alright.”
“It’s Karissa,” he says, voice low and unsteady. “I don’t think she would. She says she wouldn’t. But the things she says sometimes…it scares me.”
“Where is she right now?” I ask.
“On a walk with the kids.” He swallows. “She doesn’t know I’m doing this.”
“Okay,” I say. “Yeah. Of course.”
He takes a shaky breath, staring past me like he’s trying to hold himself together. “I don’t know how to help her.”
“You are helping,” I tell him. “This? This matters.”
He shakes his head. “It’s not enough.”
“Cody,” I say firmly. “You can’t heal her.”
He doesn’t respond.
“She’s in therapy, right?” I ask.
“Yeah. Has been for a while.” His jaw tightens. “Guess it’s not working.”
“You don’t know that,” I say. “It could be helping more than you realize. It could always be worse.”
“I don’t care,” he snaps quietly. “It already feels too bad. I can’t—I can’t deal with it.”
His eyes go glassy for half a second before he blinks it away.
“What can we do?” I ask.
He thinks for a beat. “Maybe she needs more breaks. More help.”
He pauses before continuing, “I can only do so much. And the kids—sometimes all they want is her…and it just makes it worse.”
“I can talk to Megan,” I say. “See if she’d be willing to come over tomorrow. Give Karissa some space.”
He nods. “Yeah. Maybe. Talk to Megan first.”
“I will.”
We move the guns from his truck into the garage. I’ll organize them later, but for now, locked and out of reach is enough.
He leaves not long after.
When I head back inside, Megan’s standing at the top of the stairs. She comes down slowly, watching my face, waiting to hear what that was about.