Page 71 of The Trouble with Flings

I grew up in a house where my mother kept a running grocery list on the counter and shopping was a full family production. My mother would use that list, on which we all re-added things she’d crossed off, and all five of us kids would follow her around the store lobbying for our own agendas and arguing about what constituted a necessity.

Jennifer’s approach is more of a controlled improvisation. She moves through the aisles with the same confidence she brings to everything, tossing in items without deliberation. Bread, eggs, a block of sharp cheddar, two cans of soup, a few frozen dinners, and almost ceremoniously, a box of Cap’n Crunch cereal and a half gallon of rocky road ice cream.

“Late-night staples,” she says.

I nod, taking note of her favorites.

Her eyes narrow. “Don’t judge.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

She smiles victoriously and pushes the cart forward.

By the time we haul everything back to her apartment and put away the laundry and groceries, she’s running on fumes and pure stubbornness. She doesn’t show it, of course, but I see it in the way she keeps moving, like if she slows down, stillness might catch her.

“Why don’t you sit down and rest?”

“I’m fine,” she insists, and straightens a book that doesn’t need straightening on the surfboard.

I let it go, because arguing with Jennifer about her own body is a losing proposition, and I try another strategy. Last night we watched John Wick, and it held her rapt attention.

“Suit yourself,” I say, and turn on John Wick: Chapter 2, sit on the couch, and wait.

She lasts about four minutes before the magic of Keanu Reeves reels her in, and she sinks down to the cushions. I give her a minute before lifting her feet onto my lap.

Her eyes narrow, the warning clear.

“I’m just taking off your boots.” I take them off one at a time and set them on the floor, holding her feet in my lap.

Jennifer watches me, obviously deciding whether it’s worth a fight.

I begin rubbing the arch of her foot with my thumbs, and she sinks into the cushions with a sigh, her head tipping back. “I knew you were good with your hands, but God…”

She’s asleep in under ten minutes, and I keep her feet in my lap.

The movie plays on against the backdrop of distant city noises, and I think, with awe, about this solo life Jennifer has created. She did this on her own. A stubborn, vulnerable, rebellious girl from Long Island put herself through school, refusing to fail, and conquered a job she decided on as a teenager because of a challenge. This incredible woman took on the world and won. I know she’ll figure out motherhood the same way.

She’ll insist on it, and I know better than to argue that point anytime soon. She’s going to be an amazing mother. Fierce and tired and so full of love, it’ll spill over onto everything—our child, her work, this fast-moving, noisy city, and hopefully me.

But the image of her managing a stroller, a baby, and groceries up three flights of stairs in the cold of winter sits in my chest like a stone I can’t dislodge.

Chapter Nineteen

Jennifer

The thing about a day like this one, spent running errands and eating pastries with a man who folds yoga pants with architectural precision and performs magical massages with those same hands, is that it has no business feeling as normal as it does. Yet tonight, when Fitz holds the door to the restaurant open and his hand finds the small of my back as he follows me in, it feels like it belongs there. It feels normal.

As we wait for the hostess, I spot Mia and Reggie tucked into a booth, their heads bent together over a basket of bread. “That little secret keeper.”

Fitz glances at me, confused. “Who?”

“Mia,” I say, nodding toward the booth. “Come on.”

We weave through the restaurant, and I plaster on my most charming smile as we approach her table. “Well, isn’t this cozy,” I say, arching a brow at Mia.

“Jen. Hi.” Mia’s eyes widen like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar, but she recovers fast, waving a hand like she’s swatting away the implication. “We were both in the neighborhood. It was a coincidence.”

“Both of you?” I say, raising an eyebrow. “In this neighborhood? How convenient. Fitz, this is my sister Mia, and you know Reggie.”