Perfect Together by Kristen Ashley

Why did he have to be so mature?

Well, two could play that game.

“You’re right, actions do speak, as do words,” I returned. “You made no verbal promises to her. On top of that, you told me you didn’t ask her to move in, she asked, and you let her because she was in a jam. And in the end, you didn’t ever really let her move in. All of those things say something, she just didn’t want to hear it.”

“Would you want a man who didn’t take responsibility for hurting another person? Whatever that person did, however that person behaved, would you want a man who didn’t assess his part in the situation and admit he fucked up too?” he asked.

Damn it.

“No,” I muttered.

His lips twitched.

They stopped doing that, and softly, he said, “Everyone talks about the bunny boiling. But no one says dick about the married man who started a relationship with a woman when he had no business doing it. I’m not excusing bunny boiling either. But this narrative has to shift, and we both know it. And I don’t want to be a part of that narrative not shifting.”

“Sometimes it’s hateful how wonderful you are,” I announced.

He grinned and replied, “Say that looking hot in black underwear when you’re over here.”

“There’s three feet of space between us and you have longer legs,” I pointed out.

Remy didn’t take time to consider my statement, nor did he reply.

He just erased the space, and I was glad I hadn’t done my lipstick, because the kiss he laid on me would have meant I’d have to do it again.





Remy and I were lying in our bed that night, in the dark, on our backs, both of us staring at the ceiling, and we were holding hands.

“Well, that sucked,” he said.

He wasn’t talking about the food, the ambience, or the company of that evening.

He was talking about the mood and how all of us tried to pretend it wasn’t as shitty as it actually was.

“Yes,” I agreed. “But this won’t last forever. We’ll get past it.”

He blew out a deep sigh.

“So, you know, you being adult and accountable is making me realize I’m not.”

That made him turn to me, still holding my hand, but he reached out and rested his other on my belly.

“You’re entitled to be pissed at Myrna for being a pain in the ass,” he noted, then reminded me, “You didn’t do anything to her.”

“No, I mean with Bea.”

The air grew dense around us.

“I can’t hide behind my posse with this,” I told him. “I need to face her. Me. Personally. She’s been the worst with you. I care about her. She’s my friend. But you’re my husband. She should know she’s been hurtful, she’s still being it, and I should listen to whatever she has to say about why she does it.”

“I never thought I’d say this in my life, especially after today, but now I’m not looking forward to either of us leaving here and going home.”

That made me turn to him, slide close, press closer and repeat, “We’ll get past it.”

He circled me with his arms and grunted, “Yeah.”

“We’re together and I love you.”

He pulled me deeper into his body and his grunt of, “Yeah,” was sweet this time.

We snuggled.

Neither of us found it easy to fall asleep.

But eventually, we did, which was good.

Because we had one more day in New Orleans, and there was no way around it.

It wasn’t going to be a good one.





CHAPTER 29





Never Change





Remy





The next morning, the family sat for breakfast with his dad, but not his mom, Melly pulling out all the stops, (yes, even more fantastic than The House or her biscuits and gravy). But as they lingered over coffee and mimosas that were very easy on the OJ, Remy excused himself.

He did this to find his mother.

He didn’t have to go far.

After he set his dishes in the sink, he caught Melly coming in from outside.

She took one look at him and shared, “She’s in the garden.”

Remy nodded, gave her a grin he knew was weak, she returned the same, and he headed out.

He did this only to stop dead when he saw his mother sitting among the lush greenery, large urns tumbling with flora, elegant statuary dotted around, an understated fountain tinkling.

She had a peach pashmina wrapped around her shoulders over a honey-colored turtleneck, even though the temperature was already over seventy degrees. She was holding a delicate coffee cup by the saucer, fingers of her other hand to the curve of the handle of the cup, dipping her head to take a sip.

What froze him was not only the fact Colette had to be wrapped up like that, sitting in the sun in her garden, which was a likely indication of not only her being perpetually underweight, but of her illness.

It was also the fact that the last time he’d seen his grandmother, she was in that same position, in that same garden, but it was the afternoon, it was summer, even hotter, she was still wearing a shawl because of illness (and being underweight). And she was drinking sweet tea.

If memory served, she passed peacefully in her sleep within weeks of that visit.

But she was peaceful because she’d been drugged, seeing as she, too, had died of breast cancer.