Page 40 of Homestead

“I know you’re not prickly,” I tell him, smiling back. “But I want to…”

I bite back what I was going to say.I want to be a good woman for you.

Or something like that.

“You want to what?” he asks softly.

He really wants an answer. I can see it on his face. But I can’t seem to shape my original words. I finally manage something. “I want to be good to you.”

His mouth parts slightly. Something flares up in his eyes. “You have been good to me. You got no idea how much better it is for me with you here.”

He had to do everything on his own before I got here. And he didn’t get to have sex every evening. It makes sense that things are better for him now, but it’s really nice to hear him say it.

My smile broadens. “Okay. Good. It’s better for me too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” Then he shakes himself off. “We better hurry. It takes a while to walk there, and it’s getting late.”

“I’m ready anytime.”

“Just give me five minutes.”

* * *

Jimmy is actually ready in less than five minutes. He puts on a pair of khakis and a blue plaid button-up. He even tucks it in, and he’s almost unrecognizable.

He looks good. Really good. But I almost miss the big rumpled bear.

I don’t tell him that, of course. He pulls the big cooler full of the fish he caught today on its two wheels, and he refuses to let me help. Everyone else is already there when we arrive.

It feels strange. Walking in with Jimmy at my side. Most of the faces are familiar, but they’re looking at me differently. I don’t know what to say, so I smile and nod and hope no one is going to put me on the spot.

I’m quiet to begin with, but I end up having a good time. I sit next to a lovely black woman who introduces herself as the Hurleys’ daughter, Amelia. She’s friendly and genuine, and it’s easy to warm up to her. I end up talking a lot—much more than normal—and I forget to feel self-conscious and wonder what everyone’s thinking about me.

Because we didn’t get here in time to help prepare dinner, I help clear the dishes and clean up afterward.

In the kitchen, Greta gives me a big hug and says, “Thank you so much, Chloe.”

When I pull back, I stare up at her in confusion. “For what?”

“For taking such good care of him. It’s like he’s a new man.”

I’m surprised and pleased both. And also filled with a possessive pride. “Really?”

“Yes, of course really. And it’s not just that you finally got him to look like himself again and put on decent clothes. He also looks… content, and it’s been a really long time since I’ve seen that.”

I swallow hard, having no idea how to respond to that. I don’t even know if it’s true, but I hope it is. “I… I’ve been doing my best.”

She gives me another quick hug. “I’m so glad he found you.”

That’s the extent of the conversation—quite effusive for Greta—and I focus back on the dishes I’m washing.

But I think about what she said. A lot. And I decide that despite my stumbles and insecurities, I must have done all right this week.

And hopefully I can keep doing better.

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