Page 48 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

“Okay,” he said, sighing happily. “Husband. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” I said. “Husband.”

“Never going to get tired of that, either.”

“I’ll make dinner,” I said. “Let me know when you’ll be home.”

Home. Saying that word in my actual home hit me in the gut.

“Okay,” Peter said. “I’m going, I’m going.”

With that, Peter gave me a wink and blew me a kiss, then reluctantly stepped out onto the porch and closed the door. For a moment, I thought I might run after him, take him up on his offer to go with him to his office. I could sit in a café for hours, drink coffee, and read a book. Not be alone. However, as the thought entered my head, something strange happened. No one would ever believe me if I told them. Not that I would have uttered such things to anyone.

The house groaned. Like a sigh. As if exhaling a greeting of some kind.

Of course, Peter’s—our—house was old. Renovated, but old. It was settling and the noise was purely coincidental. However, something inside of me right then told me it wasn’t. I was being welcomed home.

Over the course of two years, I hadn’t spent a tremendous amount of time in our house. I’d only been able to visit every few months. However, anytime I had visited our home, I’d always felt at home. And then, standing in the circle of Target bags in the quiet left in Peter’s absence, I felt as though our home was telling me it was glad I was back.

So, I didn’t chase after Peter. I lifted the paper coffee cup to my lips and took the last cold dregs in one gulp.

“Okay, house,” I said after I swallowed. “Let’s reacquaint ourselves.”

It groaned again.

Four hours later, I was at the stove. I had washed all of my new clothes and found homes for them in the second closet in the master bedroom and on the side of Peter’s dresser he had cleared out for me. I’d answered no less than twenty texts from Peter asking if I was okay and if I needed anything. Of course, with the house as company, and our need to familiarize ourselves with each other once again, I was doing fine and needed nothing.

Though having Peter race away to work on my first day home hadn’t been ideal, it had maybe been for the best. Having a few hours alone with our home had been lovely. I had gotten to run my fingers along the wainscoting in the dining room. Fluff the pillows on the den sofa. Walk around the backyard in the chilly early autumn air. And I had washed the airplane smell off of me in our shower. And I had been able to decide on my own what we would have for dinner.

That was the best part of it all.

“Babe!” Peter called out from the front door as I poked at the contents of the pot. “I’m home!”

I smiled at Peter’s shouted greeting. I had a husband who actually announced his arrival when he came home. Like in old television shows or movies.

“I’m in the kitchen!” I announced.

Continuing to cook, I listened as Peter made his way from the front of the house to the kitchen, making those lived-in noises that all houses possess. My husband stepped through the kitchen doorway with a wide grin on his face, prepared to announce something of obvious importance. However, when his eyes landed on me, he froze.

“Yes?” I turned to him, a grin on my face.

Peter’s eyes traveled up and down my body. Obviously, the fact that I was only wearing a new pair of underwear was not lost on him.

“Well,” Peter managed, “if I get to come home to this every day…”

I chuckled.

“Do you like them?” I asked, turning a bit in front of the stove.

He whistled lowly. “Those fit just right.”

“I missed you,” I said, playfully.

“I didn’t realize how much I missed you until just now,” he replied. “Enzo. Those underwear…”

Grinning to myself, I turned back to the stove.

“I made a chicken stew,” I said, pretending I was unimpressed with Peter’s obvious arousal. “It will be ready soon.”