Page 104 of Shared By my Ex's Best Friends
I tap the steering wheel with my fingers as I pull into the driveway.
Just as the last sliver of sun slips behind the neighboring rooftops, the porch glows in amber light, painting the edge of the mailbox and the flower pots on the steps. A cicada drones somewhere in the distance, the hum of fall dusk settling in.
Our house.
Warm and lived-in, the siding slightly faded on one side, flower beds in various stages of bloom because none of us remembers to water them consistently.
The porch light is already on—Ethan’s habit. Always the first to flick it on, even before the sky dims.
I grab the cinnamon rolls and the crinkled bookstore bag, balancing both in one arm as I head up the walkway. The screen door creaks open before I even reach for the handle.
Maya.
She leans against the doorframe like she’s been waiting for me. She’s barefoot, toes curling slightly against the worn porch mat, wearing a pair of charcoal leggings and one of Jake’s old sweatshirts that hangs off one shoulder.
There’s a smear of dark juice on her thigh, like she wiped her fingers there absentmindedly. Her hair is up in a messy twist, wisps framing her flushed cheeks, and her eyes sparkle with something between pride and mischief.
“You didn’t forget,” she says, gaze zeroing in on the bakery box.
“Wouldn’t dare.” I hold it up like an offering. “Your cravings rule my world now, remember?”
“Damn right they do,” she says, smirking, and steps back to let me in.
I pass her, brushing a kiss against her temple as I go, and I’m hit by that familiar wave of home—soft cotton, lavender lotion, and something warm and savory still lingering in the air from dinner.
A note of garlic, maybe rosemary. Jake must’ve cooked.
The living room is softly lit by a single lamp over the couch. Pillows are half-flopped over one another, and a knitted blanket is draped messily across the armrest, trailing onto the floor.
A mug of tea sits cold and forgotten on the coffee table next to Maya’s open laptop, a half-folded baby registry pamphlet sticking out from underneath it. A crumpled napkin. One slipper. The usual lived-in chaos.
From the kitchen, I hear the clatter of dishes—Jake’s doing something with the drying rack—and the faint hum of Ethan’s voice from down the hallway, probably finishing a phone call.
“What’s with the stain?” I tease, pointing to her thigh.
She glances down. “Oh, that… I was dipping raspberries in peanut butter for a snack earlier.”
“Raspberries and peanut butter?” I ask, raising a skeptical brow as I kick off my shoes.
Maya makes a face and grabs the box from my hands. “Okay, itsoundsawful, but it worked in a weird, tangy-sweet, nutty kind of way. I won’t make you try it. Unless you piss me off.”
I chuckle, following her into the kitchen. “Duly noted.”
She calls over her shoulder, “Guys! Cinnamon rolls incoming!”
Jake pokes his head around the corner a moment later, his damp hair curling against his forehead, still towel-drying the back of his neck. He’s in flannel pajama pants and a tank top that readsWorld’s Okayest Chef.
“About damn time,” he grumbles, but he’s grinning. “You took forever.”
“I had to make a stop,” I say, walking over to the coffee table and setting the box down with a theatrical flourish.
Ethan’s voice comes from the hallway, growing closer. “Tell me this is the kind with extra frosting.”
“I literally threatened the poor teenage cashier to make sure,” I say, deadpan.
Jake grins, clapping a hand on my shoulder as he passes.
“That’s our boy,” he says, and it’s not just about the cinnamon rolls or the ridiculous book—it’s approval, affection, and belonging, all packed into three words.
