Walking with a slight waddle, she made her way into the kitchen. Mike was making a salad, Dylan checking on a roast, and both turned to her, smiles at the ready, so amused and playful she almost burst into tears at the hope it all inspired.
“She rises!” Dylan exclaimed, drying his hands on a dish towel and planting a kiss on her cheek. Mike kept his space, reaching for the empty glass in her hand. Without asking, he filled it from the water dispenser on the fridge door and handed it back, full.
“Thanks,” she said, looking around, blinking. Both men kept stealing glances of her belly. Obvious and trying not to be. She did a shimmy and said, “Lap dances, $25.”
“You undercharge,” Dylan said, mirth in his voice but something more sensual in his eyes. Her pulse quickened and blood flowed to places that had been deeply neglected by a man’s touch.
“OK. $50. I’m lap dancing for two, after all.” She wiggled her belly. Mike groaned and Dylan winced. Topic change.
“Whatcha cooking?” She nosed over Dylan’s shoulder. A big slab of delicate meat surrounded by carrots, potatoes, onions, and something unidentifiable. “What’s that?”
“Celeriac.”
“Sell airy what?”
“Celeriac. It’s kind of like the root of a celery plant. Sort of. It’s really savory and complements the meat nicely.”
“Mmmmmkay, Rachel Ray.”
He looked offended. “I’m Gordon Ramsay all the way, babe.” Arms reached around her, his face nonplussed as he couldn’t make it, the belly in the way. “Don’t you forget it,” he joked, pulling back, bemused.
“More like the rat in Ratatouille,” Mike said, droll and patient.
“You two are getting Kraft Mac n Cheese if you don’t stop.”
Her stomach growled audibly. Dylan pointed at it and said, “The baby speaks! She defends me!”
“Are all audible bodily functions a commentary on you, Dylan? If so...” Mike bit his lips, holding back.
“Let’s just eat!” Laura declared. Her stomach growled again. “I’m starving!” No one had cooked her a homemade meal in, well—not since Dylan’s meatballs. It felt good to be pampered, cared for, taken care of.
And the food was divine.
So was the company. Somehow, the three of them fell back into an easy banter, talking and laughing with abandon, yet comfortable with silence. So much to say. So little pressure to say it. Time might heal all, she thought, if they never said a word. Just living and being and coexisting might do the trick.
Not really. She could hope, though. Food, though— food had a universal language that said, “Dig in. Eat. Relax. Enjoy.”
And she did.
Beep! Something that sounded like a clothes dryer went off. “Oh! Your quilt!” Mike said, jumping up from the table and walking down the hallway.
“My quilt?”
“Your grandma’s quilt. Mike’s washing it a few times. Part of your stuff we hauled home.”
A grateful warmth filled her. Blinking back tears, she said, “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. Thank Mike.”
She reached for Dylan’s hand and squeezed. “No. Thank you. You saved me. Saved us.”
He shook his head, eyes serious. “I almost ruined us. And I hurt you deeply.” Hearing it from him made a difference; she had tried to convince herself it didn’t matter, but it did. Mike returned to the table, a look of puzzlement, then alarm, on his face.
“Everything OK?”
“We’re getting serious,” Dylan muttered.
Mike’s face shifted to dawning understanding. “Oh. Got it.” He pushed his plate back and leaned forward on the table, chin in hand. “Is this the part where I get down on my knees and beg Laura to forgive me for being such a ridiculous, cravenly afraid asshole?”
“That’s my role!” Dylan protested. “I look really good eating humble pie. Lately, it’s my specialty. Shows off my good side.” He tilted his face to the left, a sad smirk coloring the discussion.
“You can both play that role,” she joked. Except she wasn’t joking. They all knew it. “No,” she added, shaking her head. “All three of us can play that role, because I did to you what you did to me.” She winced. “With higher stakes.”
No one argued. That made her feel even worse. Here we go, she thought. Cards on the table. Hearts on sleeves. It was now or never, and clichés aside, if she wasn’t brutally honest with herself and with them, she could never, in good conscience, forgive herself.
Which was the most important person she needed to extend forgiveness to.
“Can I say something, Laura?” Mike interrupted. He stood slowly, with great deliberation, inch by inch rising to stand over her and Dylan, the table miniscule and unimportant, the air filled with intent.