Page 87 of The Treasure House

“Not big ones,” I admitted, feeling exposed. “All I’ve ever really wanted was a home. Predictability. A job, a place to live, food in the refrigerator, a library card. And I have all those things, Tim or no Tim.”

He scratched his jaw. “Yeah, but he made all that a lot harder when he left you to deal with it. I think a little anger would be justified.”

I pressed my lips together. Maybe it was the wine, or the intimacy of the firelight, or maybe it was just Jake, but I was honest. “Anger doesn’t work,” I said bluntly. “It’s just a waste of energy. You’re better off forgetting it and moving on. Anger doesn’t keep you safe, it doesn’t keep you fed, it doesn’t keep your kid fed.”

His eyebrows went up and I felt he was studying me closely.

I took a sip of wine, ignoring my pounding heart.

“But you still feel it?”

I shook my head. No. I refused to.

“I’ll feel it for you,” Jake volunteered, shaking his head. “I mean, what an asshole.”

“He’s not. He pays child support.” Mostly. “And he calls her three times a week and sends her presents.”

“That’s a low bar,” Jake rumbled, holding Hazel closer.

I fell silent. It was.

“Meanwhile you’re competing for Mom of the Year,” he told me.

I felt a lump in my throat, which was silly. Jake had only known us for a few months. But I didn’t often get praised for my parenting, even though I felt like I was performing at an Olympic standard most of the time. It was hard being a mom, and there were no performance reviews.

“And that kid is turning out great,” Jake added, giving me a half smile. “I should know, too, because my niece is not turning out great. She watched Mean Girls and thought Regina George was inspirational.”

I laughed. “You’ve seen Mean Girls?”

“Of course. I have a sister. And a bunch of nieces.”

“Lainey is a bit…”

“Mean.”

“I was going to say passive-aggressive.”

Jake snorted. “There’s no passive in it. I think it’s because she’s the youngest and her sisters do it to her. She’s got a messed-up relationship with other girls.”

“And what about you,” I segued clumsily, full of my own questions I was dying to ask him. “How are your relationships with girls?”

“I like them,” he said with a smile.

I rolled my eyes. “I noticed. I mean, what’s your history?”

“We might need more wine for that one.” He hefted Hazel under one arm and went to get the bottle I’d brought. “Fancy going back to the couch…?”

I did. We left the dishes on the table and curled up on the sofa. Hazel hid between Jake and the cushions as the storm continued unabated.

“Now, where were we?” he asked, inching closer to me.

“You were telling me about your history with women,” I prodded.

“I was hoping you might forget that.”

“I didn’t.” I reached out to run my hand up his neck and into his hair. I felt him shiver.

“Well, it’s a depressing patchwork,” he admitted. “A lot of dating, a lot of heartbreak—”