Page 78 of Just This Once

“You don’t think he’s mature enough?” Clara guesses, and I shake my head. I’m the older one, but he’s the one who has a better handle on himself. Sure, I have a house and kids and all the things an adult is supposed to have, but sometimes I feel like I’m still figuring it all out. After my divorce, I had to start my life over from scratch, and most days I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, overwhelmed and stressed out because of all the plates I’m spinning.

It’s Dante who dragged me out of my corner kicking and screaming, forcing me to have fun and relax, forget about what Ineedto do and focus on what Iwantto do.

Fuck the plates. Fuck juggling balls. Fuck the past.

He lives in the present and has brought me along for the ride.

“For all of his big golden retriever energy, Dante is one of the most mature and level-headed people I know,” I tell them. “Which is why I think he needs to find someone else who’s not jaded and still trying to overcome drama and trauma and?—”

“These all sound like excuses to me,” Marianne says to Clara. “What do you think?”

“Excuses,” she confirms, and I really don’t have time for this impromptutherapy session.

I motion behind me. “Whatever. We have to go and meet up with Dante and Jake. Mads, come on, hon.”

She holds up a pair of earrings. “Can I get these?”

“Yeah. Your aunts said you can get whatever you want as your Christmas present.”

Maddie hops up and down excitedly. “Really?”

They roll with it. “Yeah, of course!”

Clara pulls out her wallet, like she’s going to blow on dice. “Earn those airline points. Mama wants a trip to Aruba next year!”

Marianne is practically a sister to me, her parents letting me sleep over so many nights, they bought me all my own toiletries. Her father, Larry, became a stand-in dad, helping me with homework and cheering me on at soccer games. Her mother, Vanessa, held my hand at my own mother’s funeral and brought me food and groceries after both of my kids were born, then slipped me a business card for a divorce lawyer when the time came. Without the Wilkensons, I don’t know how I would have survived. Sure, I had my brothers, but as the only girl in the family, my place and experience were very different, and if there are such things as soul mates, I know Marianne is mine.

With her hand on my daughter’s shoulder, she turns to me, mouthing,I love you.

Love you too, I mouth back.

After all these years and everything that’s happened, I have never been able to scare her away, and I know deep down I won’t be able to scare Dante away either.

With Maddie’s new purchases in hand, we say goodbye to Marianne and Clara and head back to meet Dante and Jake. They return, all smiles, each holding a container of candied pecans. Curious, I ask, “What did you guys get up to?”

Jake shrugs. “Nothing.”

Dante tosses a pecan up in the air and catches it in his mouth. “Bro stuff.”

Jake imitates Dante, tossing and catching the pecan before saying, “Eating and talking.”

Dante nods to Jake, a signal to get ready, then tosses a nut to him to catch in his mouth. When he does, they high-five, and I suppose boys will never truly grow out of being boys.

Then Dante offers me a pecan, but when I reach for it, he snatches it back, holding one in his hand, like I’m supposed to let him throw it at me. There is no way I’m letting him.

Until he waggles his eyebrows all cute, and I sigh, tilting my head back. He lets it fly, and I catch it, barely. The thing bounces off the corner of my lip and into my mouth, but Dante and my kids cheer anyway.

He grins, and I hear his voice in my head from a few weeks ago.Don’t try to scare me away. You can’t.

Chapter 25

Dante

It never occurred to me until today that I might actually need to buy a car. I have use of one of the company’s trucks, but my dad is a stickler that it’s not “my” vehicle. It’s Moretti’s, and I have to track all my mileage. I personally get around on my motorcycle; though, if I’m going to be driving around with the kids more, I’ll need to invest in something of my own. As much as I love watching Taryn drive—the tip of her tongue at the corner of her mouth as she waits to make a left turn, or how she sets her elbow on her door when she’s impatient with the driver in front of her—I want to be able to chauffeur her around. Especially because she’s dead set against my motorcycle. I think it would take an act of God to get her on the back of my bike again.

A pity.

Because there was nothing better than having her plastered to my back, her arms hugging the life out of me.

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