Page 94 of On the Line

“And what, pray tell, are those?”

In the half hour that he’s already been gone, his sisters, along with Paige and Morgan, have decorated the first floor of our house, and set up drinks and snacks on the back deck. Several of Jameson’s friends, including a few current Rebels players, are hanging out in my kitchen. Colt is playing with the kids like he is one of them, and my best friends and their husbands just walked in a few minutes ago.

Our house is packed with the people who love us most—it’s everything I dreamed about when I decided to move to Boston, only better. It’s also why I’m standing on the back deck, because there’s no way they could all be quiet enough for me to have this conversation inside.

“They’re like normal white mushrooms, but brown.” I have no idea how one even cooks mushrooms. Luckily, I won’t be cooking. Jameson’s favorite food truck, a BBQ place that has an amazing variety of foods, will arrive shortly after he gets home to cater his birthday party. The one he doesn’t know he’s having.

“If I can’t find them, can I just get normal mushrooms?”

“You’re asking because you already have those in your hands, aren’t you?”

“Most definitely.”

“Okay, fine. Hurry home, okay?”

Our home.Jameson came home with me the night I met Sophia, and he never left. Which has worked out well, since I’ve never wanted him to.

“I’ll be home in fifteen minutes. Are the girls down for their nap yet?” He drops his voice low and says, “My birthday feels like the perfect day for some afternoon delight.”

A laugh bursts out of me as I glance over my shoulder at our house full of guests, all here to celebrate him. “They’re still awake, so we’ll have to see.”

We say goodbye, and then I head across the backyard to open the gate that leads to the driveway. I enter the code on the keypad to open the garage door and back my SUV down the driveway and park it on the street.

When I return to the garage, I pull out two portable sawhorses and the piece of plywood that Jules brought over. I lay the plywood across the sawhorses, then grab the packing tubes with the architectural plans Audrey drew up for this occasion. I unroll the plans, flipping quickly through the extra-large pages to double-check that they are in order, and then I hold each corner down with paperweights I bought just for this occasion.

When I see Jameson’s car approaching the driveway, I shoot off a text to the whole group inside, telling them to stay away from the windows and be quiet, and then I’m walking out of the garage to meet him.

“Hey, what are you doing out here?” he asks as he steps out of his car.

“I need to show you something in the garage. Come look at this.”

“Okay.” I can tell by his voice that he’s confused.

“So, I did a thing. For your birthday,” I say as I stop in front of the plywood. He stands behind me, his left hand resting on my rib cage, below my armpit, where my new tattoo resides. His hand always lands there, as if he’s reminding me that we have matching dates inked onto our bodies: this year, when I came back to him.

“Are these ... drawings of a garage?” he asks, reaching over my shoulder with his other arm to trace the lines of the two-car garage with his finger.

“Yeah, to replace this tiny one,” I say as I glance around the small freestanding garage that barely fits my SUV and some yard tools.

“You’re giving me drawings of a garage for my birthday?” There’s laughter in his voice, so I lean my head back on his collarbone and look up at him.

“Turn to the next page.”

As he moves the paperweight, I slip my hand under the top page, holding the next one down. It’s crucial that he sees these pages one at a time.

“Is this a fully finished room above the garage? This is a really big space.” His eyes scan over the page. “Why would we need a bathroom and a kitchenette in this room above the garage?”

“I was thinking it could be an office space,” I tell him, “for when you need to get some work done at home.”

He tries really hard to leave work at the office, but it’s the nature of his job that it isn’t always possible. We set up one of the spare bedrooms for him to use as an office months ago, but it hasn’t been ideal. If he needs to take a late phone call or something, he always ends up in the sunroom so he doesn’t wake up the kids. Or, occasionally, he’ll stay late at work because he knows he has a phone call that can’t be interrupted.

“You really do want me here as much as possible, don’t you?” he teases as he kisses the top of my head.

“Guilty. But I also want you to be comfortable here. Look,” I say, flipping one more page and pointing at the next part of the plans, “this breezeway would come right off the sunroom, and then you could either take these stairs up to the office, or go through this doorway into the garage. So it would be separate from the house, but you wouldn’t have to go outside to get there. And right here”—I point to an opening in the front of the breezeway—“is an exterior door so if you needed to meet anyone in the office, they could come in here and go right up the stairs without going into the house or garage.”

He gives my side a squeeze, right over my tattoo, and when I look over my shoulder at him, he looks a little choked up. “Are you officially asking me to move in?”

“You basically moved in four months ago, Jameson. I’m asking you to stay ... forever.”

---