He’d even talked about getting a dog again. “Good for Bug, don’t you think?” he’d asked her. “She’s going to be lonesome after Dyma leaves for college. Good for the baby, too, if it’s gentle. Ranger would let Bug crawl all over her when she was a baby. A big dog like that would be good. When camp’s over, we could start taking a look. Have to do it quick before the season starts, though.” After that, he hadn’t said anything, because he’d fallen asleep.
So, yes. Even exhausted, he’d been thoughtful, and funny, and sweet. He’d talked about Annabelle and Dyma and the baby that they were already calling Nick. He’d talked about a dog. He’d made love to her with even more intensity, and with so much tenderness, it made her want to weep. He’d started looking at car seats and strollers online, researching their safety ratings and how easy they’d be for her to maneuver.
He just hadn’t mentioned wanting to marry her.
She started cutting beef into cubes and went over all her points again. It wasn’t hard. She had them memorized by now.
Point One. It was an idea he’d blurted out on one of the worst days of his life, when he was feeling emotionally overwhelmed and grateful for her support. And possibly looking for a lifeline.
Point Two. He’d brought it up another time, and he hadn’t meant it then, either. Back when he’d knelt down in her living room in front of Blake and Dakota and Annabelle and Dyma and her grandfather, even though he clearly didn’t love her, like the cruelest mockery of a moment that should have been precious, and she’d felt humiliated. Which didn’t exactly suggest that it was an idea he took seriously.
Point Three. They’d known each other for six months, and no matter how much she loved him, it was too soon.
Definitely too soon.
Anybody would say it was too soon.
All right, it didn’t feel too soon. But still. Six months.
Point Four. She didn’t want to marry anybody who wasn’t dying to marry her, and she didn’t have to be married to Harlan to co-parent with him. It was the twenty-first century, even though Dyma was right that she sometimes felt she didn’t fit in it.
She was allowed to be who she was. The snow goose didn’t have to bathe to make itself white, et cetera. She wasn’t allowed to force other people into something they didn’t feel, or something they didn’t want.
Right. That was four points. Also, her meat was chopped. She went to the pantry, hauled out the Instant Pot, and when the tears pricked behind her eyes, told herself, Stop. She tried to remember the Tao, or her version of it. Those brave things she’d said to Dyma about living in the present, about living without fear or expectation. About riding down the hill on your bike, taking your hands off the handlebars and flying, just because you were here, and you were alive. Living in all your possibilities.
The way she felt when she was with Harlan.
Which was when the front door opened and he called out, “Jennifer? Baby?”
She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, because somehow, a few tears had leaked out, and called, “Kitchen.”
He came in looking like everything she wanted. Golf shirt and shorts, shoulders and biceps and slim hips and height and blue eyes, every part of him moving in the exact way a man’s body should. She thought he was going to kiss her, but he stopped a few paces away and said, “Hey. What?”
“N-nothing.” She tried to laugh. “Just—being silly. Hormones. I’m just starting dinner. It’ll be about an …” She sniffed. “An hour.”
“Uh-huh.” He was rooting around in a drawer and pulling out a plastic container, then scraping the meat into it with a knife, snapping the lid on, and sticking it into the fridge. “Change of plans. We’re going out to dinner instead. How do you turn this off?” He inspected the Instant Pot, then shrugged and pulled the plug. “I can never figure this thing out.”
“I’m not dressed to go out to dinner,” she objected.
“How about if I give you fifteen minutes, then?” he asked. “Seeing as I’m not dressed for it, either.”
“Sounds good.” She sighed. “I really wasn’t feeling this pot roast. But I’m not sure how fancy I can get in fifteen minutes.”
Well, this was surprising. Harlan didn’t much like going out to dinner, for the obvious reason that he couldn’t do it anonymously, and it hadn’t become any easier since the news had broken about his mother’s murder. Not to mention the whole “two teammates dating a mother and daughter” thing, which had also become news. That one bothered Harlan, she could tell, because it was about her. It didn’t bother her. Apparently, after a certain point, you became immune to the judgment of people who didn’t know you, and she’d had nineteen years to practice.
Harlan never said much about any of it, but she knew that sometimes, the easygoing mask was awfully hard to put on. If he wanted to go out tonight, though, maybe it was getting easier.
Besides, she really wasn’t feeling the pot roast. What had she been thinking? It was way too hot for pot roast.
When they were in the car, though, he didn’t head downtown. Instead, he was driving south. She asked, “Are we going to Lake Oswego or something?” Closer to the Devils’ training facility, and closer to most of his teammates’ places, which tended to be located on plenty of space in the rolling hills of the almost-country.
“Close,” he said, but when they got there, he didn’t take the turn. He kept going, turning off at the sign to the Tumwater Vineyard.
She asked, “Do they have a restaurant?” This made more sense. More private, and they probably had patio dining, which would be beautiful tonight, looking out over the vine-clad hills as the light softened. Not perfect sense, because she couldn’t drink wine, and Harlan kept it to a single glass during the season and didn’t drink much at any time, which made wine-tasting pretty pointless, but whatever.
He said, “I’m not sure.”
“It might be better to be sure,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “Would you like me to look it up?”
He glanced at her, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You know what? Assume I’ve got this. And I told you, you don’t have to use your Tactful Voice. I’m not a real explosive guy.”
He didn’t turn left, though, into the vineyard’s entry. Instead, he drove a couple hundred yards farther, made a right at an unmarked driveway, pulled up to a security gate flanked by trees, punched in a code, and drove on through.
She said, “Oh. It’s somebody’s house. Is it a party? You didn’t have to be so mysterious. That’s fine. Although I’d have put on more makeup if I’d known it was a party. Some of your teammates’ wives are intimidatingly beautiful. Just saying, since I don’t have to be tactful.”
He didn’t answer. He was taking a curve up one of hills and approaching a house.
Well, sort of a house. More of a French chateau, situated at the breast of the hill with a view all around. White stucco that was supposed to look like plaster, gray slate roofs, dormer windows, and a round tower at the front. A whole lot of house. It had wings. She’d never actually been inside a house with wings. It also had a full tennis court on one side, with basketball hoops on either end. So, a tennis and a basketball court. Also a putting green. She said, “Yep. This house is NFL all the way. Isn’t that Owen’s car? He’s here, too?”