Written in the Scars(43)

My cheeks heat as I realize he’s watching me. He grins and I grin back without thinking.

“What are we naming him this year?” he asks, tugging a hat over the top of the pumpkin.

“How about Docken?”

“Docken?” he laughs. “Where’d you get that?”

“A little girl in my class named her puppy that. It’s just the first thing I thought of,” I shrug.

“Docken it is. But take that off the potential baby name list. It definitely sounds like a dog’s name,” he laughs easily.

I look away.

“Hey,” he says, nudging me with his shoulder. “I was kidding. If you like it, it can stay on the list. Maybe a middle name.”

“We’re done here,” I say, changing the subject and taking a step away from him. “I’m going in. I have a lot of papers to grade.”

“Need help?”

I look at him and can’t help but laugh. “You are not coming inside and helping me grade papers.”

“You love how I help grade papers,” he laughs, wiggling his eyebrows.

“You are not coming in and . . .”

“Eating your *? That’s how grading papers with me usually ends, and I do believe I get an A-plus.”

“Damn it, Ty!” I say, turning away so he doesn’t see my face. “Go home.”

“I am home, beautiful.”

I hate that I’m on the brink of breaking, that he makes me forget why I’m mad.

Heading into the house, I hear him toss his things into the truck. “Wanna go to dinner?” he asks.

“Nope,” I call out over my shoulder.

“Want me to make you dinner while you grade papers?”

“Nope.”

“Want me to have you for dinner?”

I shake my head and turn to face him. My hand on my hip doesn’t take away from the smile on my face. “Ty? Enough.”

“That wasn’t a no.”

“You are impossible. I’m mad at you.”

“I figured that out. You can stop being mad now.”

“No, I can’t.”

“Then think of how much fun it’ll be being mad at me when I’m in the same house. You can be mean to me all day and night. It would be much more cathartic for you.”

My laugh dances out of my mouth before I can stop it.

“And think of the makeup sex when I convince you to stop being mad.” His eyes twinkle in the sunset. “But I’ll tell ya something, E. I don’t think I can wait very long to get inside you again.”

“Stop,” I breathe, watching him cut the distance between us in half.

As much as I want to fight it, it just feels like it would take way more energy than I have. Plus, I like the playful smile on his face and feeling the hole in my heart being filled a little.

Softening quicker than I anticipated, I choose to give in. Just for a little while. It’ll end in an argument, anyway.

“Can I take you to dinner?” he asks.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I throw my hands up in the air and head towards the house. “I’m going in to eat leftovers. You can come if you want.”

“Only if you come first,” he chuckles.

I hear his footsteps behind me, and I smile all the way to the back door.





TY


I follow her inside and into the kitchen. She never looks at me over her shoulder, never really acknowledges that I’m here.

She does this every time she’s mad. It’s her version of the silent treatment, although she’s not usually completely quiet. She’ll answer questions with a word or two, but she’s so easy to break. You can goad her right into a full blown conversation. I’ve often thought she would choose another form of being pissed if she knew just how damn adorable she was like this.

Slipping off her boots by the table, she heads to the sink to wash her hands. Just being in the same room with her, even if she’s not looking or speaking to me, is pretty damn close to heaven.

I figure the best way to go about this evening is to pretend everything is normal, that I’ve just come home from the mine and she’s pissed I moved the thermostat. Be natural. Normal. Married.

Opening the refrigerator, I’m pleasantly surprised to see a bottle of my favorite beer in the drawer on the bottom. She doesn’t drink this and I ponder the thought of why she kept it as I pop the tab.

I catch her looking at me as I bring the bottle to my lips. She rolls her eyes, knowing what I’m thinking, and I laugh, nearly choking on the brew.

“Move,” she huffs, bumping me with her hip.

I step out of the way and watch her rummage through the fridge. “So, what’s for dinner?”

“I have taco meat in here from a couple of days ago,” she says, pulling out a plastic tub.

“It’s not even Tuesday.”

She glares at me. “You are more than welcome to leave.”

I smile back. “Tacos are great any day of the week. Can I help?”

“Ugh,” she groans, marching by me. She goes about heating the meat in a skillet and getting out the toppings and shells.

I just watch her work. She seems angry, but it’s a front. The tremor in her hand as she cuts the lettuce is her giveaway. She’s trying to stay mad, but why?