felt...
Pretty.
“Yes,” he said, watching her hands move. “Very pretty.”
More?
He laughed and shook his head. “It’s called a treat because it’s special. If you have one all the time, it won’t be so good.”
From inside the house came the sound of Gran’s mumbletalk shouting. He looked at Mari. “Don’t tell her.”
Mad, Mari said.
“She won’t be mad. But she’ll want them for herself.” He tucked the box away into his backpack and stood. He ran a hand over her hair. “Be good, Mariposa.”
Be good.
“Babe?”
Startled, shamed, Mari shoves the box of new snack cakes and the old one back into place in the far, far back corner of the cupboard. She gets to her feet, brushing off her hands. “Ryan. What’s up?”
“What are you doing?”
“Putting away some things. Thinking about what to make for lunch.” Mari clears her throat and crosses the floor—tile now, not worn linoleum. It feels cool and slick on her feet, though beneath it she still senses the slope of the boards. She kisses him. “How about some chicken and biscuits?”
“You’re gonna make me fat.” He grins and snuggles against her.
“Hush,” she murmurs. “You’re not going to be fat. You care too much to get fat.”
That came out strange, but Ryan doesn’t seem to notice. He’s too busy dancing with her in the kitchen. Twirling her out, then back. Dipping her. Mari can’t help laughing at this—Ryan’s not the best dancer, not that she is. It doesn’t matter. Dancing with her husband is fun. She links her arms behind his neck as the dance slows. They move in a small circle, their toes touching.
“I love you,” she says. It’s important to say it. For him to hear it.
Here in this kitchen, Mari needs to be this woman. A wife and mother. Someone loved and who loves in return.
“Love you, too, babe.” Ryan kisses her, his attention already being pulled back to the boxes of papers he’s got stacked so high in that den. “What time’s lunch?”
“Soon.”
He grins and twirls her again. Another dip. Another kiss. Then he’s back in the den, and she can hear the sound of his whistling. Of her husband being happy.
Well, Mari can be happy, too. She can be more than that. She can be good.
SEVENTEEN
“DON’T CHASE THEM, IDIOT.” Kendra tapped the keys of her phone to send a text to Sammy as she watched Ethan run after a squawking chicken. “God.”
Sammy hadn’t answered the last couple texts Kendra had sent, but since Kendra was only getting two or sometimes three bars of signal, that wasn’t a surprise. Dad said that they didn’t need the internet, that they should use this time to do other things and to not be distracted, which was totally unfair since it wasn’t Kendra’s fault he couldn’t be self-disciplined enough not to go online when he was supposed to be working.
He was writing a book, he said, and that didn’t make any sense. Her dad was a doctor, not a writer. When Kendra was in seventh grade and had the worst English teacher ever, she’d tried to get help from him, but he’d totally messed her up. Her mom had been the one to figure out how to diagram a sentence, working hard with Kendra at the kitchen table, going back and forth from the textbook to the paper, struggling until finally, she’d cried out, “I get it!” And had been able to show Kendra how to do it. Now her dad was writing a book?
“What a joke,” she muttered.
“I’m not joking. Or chasing them!” Ethan made a face at her. “I just want to pet one.”
“They’re not pets, monkeybrat.”
“That’s what Mama said,” he mumbled.
Kendra looked at her phone again, hoping for an answer from at least one of her friends. Nothing. She shoved it into her pocket.
The barn was run-down but pretty cool. It was mostly empty inside. Part of it had been converted into a garage. Part into a chicken house with a small doorway for the chickens to get in and out. The other stalls were too small for horses or
Pretty.
“Yes,” he said, watching her hands move. “Very pretty.”
More?
He laughed and shook his head. “It’s called a treat because it’s special. If you have one all the time, it won’t be so good.”
From inside the house came the sound of Gran’s mumbletalk shouting. He looked at Mari. “Don’t tell her.”
Mad, Mari said.
“She won’t be mad. But she’ll want them for herself.” He tucked the box away into his backpack and stood. He ran a hand over her hair. “Be good, Mariposa.”
Be good.
“Babe?”
Startled, shamed, Mari shoves the box of new snack cakes and the old one back into place in the far, far back corner of the cupboard. She gets to her feet, brushing off her hands. “Ryan. What’s up?”
“What are you doing?”
“Putting away some things. Thinking about what to make for lunch.” Mari clears her throat and crosses the floor—tile now, not worn linoleum. It feels cool and slick on her feet, though beneath it she still senses the slope of the boards. She kisses him. “How about some chicken and biscuits?”
“You’re gonna make me fat.” He grins and snuggles against her.
“Hush,” she murmurs. “You’re not going to be fat. You care too much to get fat.”
That came out strange, but Ryan doesn’t seem to notice. He’s too busy dancing with her in the kitchen. Twirling her out, then back. Dipping her. Mari can’t help laughing at this—Ryan’s not the best dancer, not that she is. It doesn’t matter. Dancing with her husband is fun. She links her arms behind his neck as the dance slows. They move in a small circle, their toes touching.
“I love you,” she says. It’s important to say it. For him to hear it.
Here in this kitchen, Mari needs to be this woman. A wife and mother. Someone loved and who loves in return.
“Love you, too, babe.” Ryan kisses her, his attention already being pulled back to the boxes of papers he’s got stacked so high in that den. “What time’s lunch?”
“Soon.”
He grins and twirls her again. Another dip. Another kiss. Then he’s back in the den, and she can hear the sound of his whistling. Of her husband being happy.
Well, Mari can be happy, too. She can be more than that. She can be good.
SEVENTEEN
“DON’T CHASE THEM, IDIOT.” Kendra tapped the keys of her phone to send a text to Sammy as she watched Ethan run after a squawking chicken. “God.”
Sammy hadn’t answered the last couple texts Kendra had sent, but since Kendra was only getting two or sometimes three bars of signal, that wasn’t a surprise. Dad said that they didn’t need the internet, that they should use this time to do other things and to not be distracted, which was totally unfair since it wasn’t Kendra’s fault he couldn’t be self-disciplined enough not to go online when he was supposed to be working.
He was writing a book, he said, and that didn’t make any sense. Her dad was a doctor, not a writer. When Kendra was in seventh grade and had the worst English teacher ever, she’d tried to get help from him, but he’d totally messed her up. Her mom had been the one to figure out how to diagram a sentence, working hard with Kendra at the kitchen table, going back and forth from the textbook to the paper, struggling until finally, she’d cried out, “I get it!” And had been able to show Kendra how to do it. Now her dad was writing a book?
“What a joke,” she muttered.
“I’m not joking. Or chasing them!” Ethan made a face at her. “I just want to pet one.”
“They’re not pets, monkeybrat.”
“That’s what Mama said,” he mumbled.
Kendra looked at her phone again, hoping for an answer from at least one of her friends. Nothing. She shoved it into her pocket.
The barn was run-down but pretty cool. It was mostly empty inside. Part of it had been converted into a garage. Part into a chicken house with a small doorway for the chickens to get in and out. The other stalls were too small for horses or
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