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“You’re leaving? I thought you said you would wait?”
“I’m spending a few days with Zane and Lana. I want to see my nephews.”
“When are you going?”
“Monday. I told Lana you would be away on a business trip.”
He frowns. “Should I hide from the world to make your lie real?”
I stare blankly at him. “You can do whatever you want. I need a break,” I feel uncomfortable and squirm a bit.”
He grins suggestively. “I know just the thing for that.”
“Those days are over. Sex is off the table.”
“Suit yourself,” Foster retorts as he walks out the door.
That night, he sleeps in the guest room while I toss and turn in the master. It feels strange not to have Foster next to me, cuddling me in his arms, but it is something I will need to get used to. Soon, our divorce will be finalized, and I will be moving on with my life, as would he.
“Oh, it’s so nice to see you two!” Laura greets.
Foster removes his arm from my shoulder as Laura embraces me. Since she is the one bright spot in this whole mess, I feel horrible about soon bursting her bubble. She lets me go and pecks Foster on the cheek before she pulls me into the kitchen. My husband disappears down the hall, and I suppose he is going to talk to his father.
Laura sits me down at the breakfast bar and fetches tumblers from the cabinet, placing one in front of me before she opens the refrigerator. When she turns, she’s carrying a glass pitcher.
“You have to try this—hibiscus tea. I got the recipe from Southern Homes.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Maybe just a taste. I’ve never had hibiscus tea before.”
Laura pours me half a glass anyway and waits while I sample the tea. Surprisingly, it’s delicious with more than a hint of what I assume is the taste of hibiscus. I push my glass forward for her to fill the rest of the way.
“See, I told you,” she says knowingly. “I can give you the recipe. You can make it when we come to your place sometime. When will that be?”
“We’re very busy, mother,” Foster interrupts.
We both turn to see Foster walk into the kitchen. He’s removed his sweater and is wearing a black t-shirt that accentuates his muscular chest and arms.
“I didn’t say tomorrow. You haven’t invited us for months. What about an anniversary party? Three weeks and you’ll be married a year! It’s a special milestone.”
Foster picks up my glass, sniffs, and takes a big gulp of the tea, drinking half of it. “I don’t have time,” he says, exhaling. “I’m working on a deal that fills my days.”
Laura snorts. “You and your father are cut from the same cloth. Take some time to smell the roses, spend time with Paige, and talk about the future.”
Foster puts the glass back down in front of me. “Which means what?”
“Children. Don’t you want children?”
“There’s plenty of time for them. We’re still young.”
“Paige is young. You’ll be thirty-five in a few weeks.”
“Does it matter? I need time to devote to my child, and I don’t have much of it right now. It’s on the back burner.”
“I want grandchildren,” she whines.
“Mother, this is neither the time nor the place. What’s for lunch?”
Her shoulders droop. “Call your father. I made quiche, spinach, and cheesy broccoli.”
