Happily Ever Ninja(13)

And then I was going to distract him while I hid all the kids’ contraband in their rooms, including but not limited to Grace’s Barbie dolls and princess dress, as well as Jack’s soccer bag and uniform.

“So . . . you babysat him?” Greg was the first to speak, his tone laced with the barest hint of an apology.

I sat on the couch and gathered a deep breath. “I did. I babysat him for four years until he was eight.”

“He’s how much younger than you?” A shade of curiosity colored his words.

“He’s seven years younger. I was nine and he was two when I helped his nanny change his diapers, but I didn’t start watching him on my own until I was eleven and he was four.”

I felt Greg’s eyes on me, though I wasn’t ready to meet them. I was still upset. I needed another minute to bottle my feelings of offended frustration.

“I see. And he, what? Tracked you down and moved in next door?”

“No,” I responded evenly, though what I really wanted to do was call Greg out on his apparent jealousy. But what good would that do? I might feel better for three seconds—vindicated, superior, outraged—and then what? If I’d learned one thing over the course of our relationship, it was to pick my battles with the utmost care, because our greatest commodities were energy and time.

So I swallowed the urge and explained, “He moved in next door in January without realizing who I was. The kids and I took him dinner—as you know is my practice with every new person on the floor—and he recognized me.”

“And he’s been hanging around since?”

“No, Greg. He hasn’t been hanging around since.” I was abruptly exhausted and lifted my tired eyes to my husband. “Give me more credit than that. I had a doctor’s appointment this morning. Jennifer cancelled last minute with strep throat, Matt offered to pitch in—with taking the kids to school, and with the garbage disposal and dishwasher and grocery shopping. The kids like him and I needed the help, so I accepted.” I refused to feel guilty about accepting help . . . I refused. Yep.

Regardless, I still felt guilty for accepting help.

We stared at each other, me sitting on the couch, him hovering behind the large club chair. My throat was tight with regret because we could have been enjoying each other. Instead, we were studying each other, waiting for the other to react. I had to remind myself, it was always like this at first. The first few days and weeks when he returned from abroad were typically strained, like we needed to relearn how to be married. But usually I knew when he was coming home, and I would have time to mentally prepare for it.

“I’m sorry,” he said, sounding and looking remorseful. “I’ve been traveling for almost twenty-four hours, and I’m out of sorts.”

I nodded, giving him a small smile. “Thank you for apologizing.”

“I’m sorry I was . . . rude to the child you used to babysit.”

I barked a small laugh and shook my head.

Greg continued, “I mean, he looks like he’s sixteen. How old is he again?”

“He’s twenty-nine or so.”

“Poor chap hasn’t hit puberty yet.”

“Greg . . .” I made a warning sound in the back of my throat.

“I’ll go easier on him next time. Must be difficult walking the earth as a man-child.”

“He’s only a few inches shorter than you.”

“But with men, a few inches makes all the difference.”

This, of course, made me laugh. Despite my headache, despite the stress of the month and week and day, despite his terrible behavior, I was laughing. Thus was the magic of my husband.

Grinning like he’d won something, Greg moved to the sofa and put his arm around my shoulder, pulling me to his chest so I was laughing against it.

“I miss your laugh,” he whispered as my laughter tapered, his lips next to my ear. I heard him hesitate before adding with dark desperation, “I’ve missed you.”

His tone gave me pause, the ferocity of the simple sentiment. It sounded like a warning, or a call for help. I lifted my head from his warm chest and glanced at him, searching his face. He wasn’t smiling. In fact, the intensity of his eyes, the hard set of his jaw, the slight frown hovering around his mouth sent a wave of alarmed concern through me.

I lifted my hand to his cheek and gently brushed my thumb over his temple. “Greg, honey, are you okay?”

He stared at me for a long moment. Stormy eyes were rimmed red with exhaustion . . . or maybe something else. As though he couldn’t hold my stare any longer, he pulled me tighter against him and reclined on the couch, pressing my ear to where his heart beat.