Page 19 of Dear Hattie

Should I let him, Hattie? He says it’s my call, and the thinkin’ part of my brain says it’s a terrible idea. He’s my boss, and—well. I’m not so good at acting cool around him. He gets me all flustered, and I blush bright red whenever he comes into the room.

But part of me’s thinking… where’s the harm? It’s just a sneaky little thrill. He doesn’tmeanany of it, and I’m pretty sure I can keep my heart unbruised.

What do you think? Am I crazy to think about letting him? Oh, I’m so hoping you’ll tell me to run with it.

Practice Wife

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Dear Hattie,

Is it true that sell-by dates are a myth? Can I eat week-old bread?

Mr Hangry

Twelve

Harriet

Three years later

My husband finds me sprawled on the rug in my home office. He leans in the doorway, smirking from high, high above and idly scratches his chin.

“Holding a meeting?” he says.

Is it really only hours since I saw him last? It feels like days. Italwaysfeels like days. I pat the rug beside me. “Yes. And you’re invited.”

Butterflies flutter through my insides as Wesley steps into the room. His black hair is windswept, and mussed from wearing headphones all day. The recording studio he rents for his podcast production business is only a few blocks away, but it always feels like he’s coming home from another planet.

Back to our private world. Our happy little bubble.

Wesley groans as clambers onto the floor, acting like he’s suddenly such an old man. Doubtful. Maybe he’s creakier than a couple years ago, but who isn’t? He’s still strong and lean and all too happy to scoop me over his shoulder and carry me to the bedroom.

“Writing a letter?” Wesley asks once he’s stretched out flat beside me. He reaches over and taps the notebook clutched to my stomach, then rests his hand on my hip.

“Yeah.”

Sometimes, when the words won’t come, I go back to pen and paper. Old school. And when the wordsreallywon’t come, when the right advice feels out of reach in my brain, then I take to the floor. Something about being the lowest thing in the room puts stuff in perspective for me. Is that weird?

“What was the question?” Wesley’s thumb rubs against my hip bone, warm and soothing through my cotton t-shirt and leggings.

“No question. This is… a special letter.” The most special of all.

“For Simone?” Wesley asks. He brightens when I shake my head. “For—?”

“Yeah.” I smile as his hand travels up to stroke my growing bump. It’s not massive yet—more mango than melon. “But I can’t think what to say. Can’t figure out the perfect advice.”

Wesley is quiet for a long time, lost in thought, and I relax too now that he’s here. It may be weird, but lying on the floor with my husband is one of my ultimate happy places.

“Maybe it doesn’t need to be advice,” Wesley says at last, his toffee eyes so earnest when they meet mine. “Maybe it can be a love letter, you know?”

Idoknow. It’s exactly the right thing to say, and everything clicks into place in my brain. Duh. Our baby doesn’t need advice—our baby needs boatloads of love. Happily, we’ve got tons to spare.

“So wise,” I say, tipping over to kiss his jaw. “Who’d have thought?”

“Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to uphold.”

And that’s true—but Wesley’s not known for being clueless. He’s known for his award winning podcasts, and his effortless cool, and yeah: for tormenting his wife, and loving it when she gives as good as she gets.

I love it too.

Love my arch nemesis husband.

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