Page 43 of Love Wells Kept

I huff. “No.”

She frowns, obviously frustrated despite my answer being the same every time she asks if I want to get out of the house, but she’s quick to swipe the look away with a lick of her lips. “I figured as much, but thought I should ask…just in case.”

Just in case today’s the day I decide to start being Old Jackson again.

I expect more of a pushback, given how quick she is to bully me when it comes to everything else, but instead she quietly steps into the bathroom. Presumably to put on makeup and do her hair, not that she needs to do either. I like her when she’s in my jeans and an old T-shirt, her hair falling out of a messy bun, and her complexion colored by the brisk spring air.

Unsurprisingly, when she turns back up minutes later, she’s stunning. Kate heads for the extensive jewelry collection spread across the top of her dresser, reaching for a pair of beaded earrings and a simple necklace. The last step of her routine, as it is anytime she’s leaving the ranch, is to slide her simple diamond engagement ring onto her left hand. She wiggles it around next to the gold band, then turns to face me.

“You look pretty,” I blurt out.

“You think?” She looks down at her outfit. “Hot enough you want to stay married to me? Or do I need to grab my push-up bra?”

This woman really does love to make me blush.

She laughs and runs a hand through her silky hair, letting it slowly fall over her shoulders and down her back. “Sorry, I made a joke a while back that if you didn’t remember me, I’d put on my hottest outfit and make you fall in love all over again.”

She looks as far from sorry as a person can get.

“You think a push-up bra will be enough to do the trick?” It will be. It absolutely will be.

“It worked pretty damn well for me the first time.” She moves in to kiss me gently, platonically, on the cheek. “We’ll be back in a bit. Take advantage of the quiet, kid-free house, and get some rest before the occupational therapist comes this afternoon.”

“What are you doing in town?” I ask, mostly to get my mind off the thought of Kate in a push-up bra. I suppose there’s nothing wrong with trying to picture that, since she’s my wife, but it feels perverse.

“We need supplies for Odessa’s birthday party. Her uncles got the bright idea to do something extra special since…you know.” Her wrists limply gesture to a whole lot of nothing, but she’s clearly talking about me. “So, yeah…I have to pick up princess tiaras and dresses, the whole shebang.”

“Forgot her birthday is coming up. Eight…right?”

“Yep.” Kate inhales the word. “Somehow. The years went by scary fast. Feels like yesterday she was small enough you could hold her entire body in your hands. You used to sit in bed like you are now, and she’d nuzzle right into your chest to sleep.”

Unable to contribute anything to the conversation, I take to clenching my fists around balled-up sheets, lean back against a tower of propped-up pillows and shut my eyes. Waiting impatiently for Kate to take the hint that this isn’t something I want to hear about.

When she leaves, I spend an indeterminate amount of time begging and bargaining with my brain to remember Odessa on the day she was born. Reaching into thin air and turning up with nothing time after time.

I can’t hear her first cry, can’t picture the room, can’t remember holding her in my hands the way Kate described. That should’ve been the best day of my life. And it’s just…gone.

An uttered curse leaves my lips, and I slam a fist down.

A creaky floorboard outside the bedroom announces the arrival of someone.

“Kate?” I croak.

Maybe she came back because she forgot something, then I can apologize for being a dick and ask her to tell me everything about that day.

The door slowly opens. It’s Denny. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“Go away.”

“Rude.” He sighs, but doesn’t leave. “I brought peanut butter cookies and this is how you treat me? They’re your favorite. Well…probably. Do you think maybe your tastes in things have changed since you don’t know what your favorites are anymore?”

“Denny, I swear to God—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Go away. You’re too sad and tragic for visitors. Beryl warned me.” He walks across the room to plop a handful of cookies onto the bedside table, then shoves my legs toward the middle of the bed so he has room to sit. The mattress dips under his weight. “Thought you might like some cookies and company while you sulk.”

“I’m not sulking.” My voice wavers on the edge of breaking. “I’m trying to remember the day Odessa was born.”

His face falls.