Perfect Together by Kristen Ashley

And I used them.

All the time.

Myrna was a granola, boho, throw-on-some-mascara (maybe), pick-up-your-multi-colored-woven-fringed-crossbody-and-go desert rat.

She mountain biked with Remy.

My ass had tried a spin class once and I detested it, so that had never happened again. But the kids had bought me a pink Schwinn with a cute basket, which I occasionally rode to the grocery store or a coffee shop, and by “occasionally,” I meant this happened maybe five times a year.

I was blonde, my hair ranging from shades of gold to butterscotch (not really, I had no idea what my natural hair color was anymore, and I didn’t allow myself to come even close to finding out, and I never would, until the day I died).

She was a brunette, her long, wild, perfectly tousled hair falling near to her waist when it wasn’t wrapped in some slapdash knot or twisted into twin braids.

Mine went to my bra-strap and I had it professionally blown out once a week, the other two times I did it myself, and I was (almost) a master.

She was busty, but otherwise thin.

I had tits and ass for days, never in my life had I had a flat stomach, and right then was no exception.

I was (if pushed to define it at all, never my favorite thing to do) what I preferred to consider “seasoned.”

She was thirteen years younger than me.

At that moment, she was in cutoff shorts, a slouchy mustard-colored three-quarter-sleeve top that had some kind of metallic bits sewn in and some tassels dangling. Worn Birkenstocks were on her feet and a scarf thing was happening in her hair. Her exposed limbs were tanned.

I was in green houndstooth, wide-legged pants, a severe black blouse buttoned up to my neck, red suede pumps with a thin ankle strap, and sun had not touched my skin unless it was carefully sunblocked since Remy and I moved from New York to Phoenix so he could take the job in a cutting-edge firm that had handpicked him from college.

“Mom, you think you could not be late sometime in one of the millennia you’ve lived in?” Sabre asked.

And I hoped it went without saying that I loved my son more than breath.

But his saying that in that moment when I was facing off with Myrna hurt.

Badly.

I tore my eyes from her and looked to him.

He was not the spitting image of his dad. He got my eyes and there was a lot that was all Sabre. But he got his dad’s body and mouth.

He was also looking beyond me, to who I assumed was his father, and Sabre might not be hanging his head, but he was close to it. Thus, I assumed Remy was giving him a look that shared how he felt about the millennia comment.

Yes, Remy could shout in my face, but he did not (ever) allow any of our children to disrespect their mother.

My gaze moved to Manon, who had Remy’s coloring, my skin, and some of my features, the rest was all her.

It was Yves who looked most like one of his parents, that parent being his father. Yves moved like Remy, with that big cat’s prowl. They even had a similar sounding deep, rich voice.

And they were all hanging about the family room like it was their home.

Which it was.

“I’m sorry. No excuses. Something happened, I should have ignored it, and didn’t and—” I started.

I didn’t finish because Yves interrupted me, wearing the same exact expression his father had only moments before while his eyes moved over my face.

“You all right?” he asked.

“I’m fine, honey.”

“Wyn is here.”

I twisted at the waist and looked back at Remy, who said these words.

And from where his attention was focused, I saw he said them to Myrna.

I just didn’t know why he said them since I was there, the woman could see, we’d both stared at each other not a minute ago, so my arrival didn’t need to be announced.

“Yes, sorry,” I put in, attempting to interpret what was going on with him and rectifying what I thought he was noting was my mistake. “Hello, Myrna.”

“Wyn,” she pushed out like she’d done it after sucking a lemon.

“Wyn is here,” Remy repeated.

My gaze went back to him.

His face was bland.

Oh boy.

Trouble was definitely flirting with paradise.

“Remy—” Myrna started.

“What’d I say?” he asked like he really didn’t care if she remembered, but regardless, what she was not doing that he wanted her to do, she needed to do it…immediately.

Yikes!

Trying not to call attention to myself, I walked into the family room thinking at least I’d never had that Remy.

I’d seen that Remy, when he was around people he did not care for, they annoyed him or frustrated him, or were simply of an ilk he didn’t have any fucks to give them.

His deep freeze was chilly, believe you me.

But his bland indifference seemed worse.

I used to tease him about both.

For my part, I might get the deep freeze on the most intense of our occasions.

Predominantly, though, I got the hothead, shout-the-roof-down, never-say-die, duke-it-out-verbally until someone either slammed out of the room or you attacked each other and fucked it out.

I had honestly thought it was all going to be okay when I got back from California those three years ago because, before I went, we’d gone at it but ended fucking it out.

But when I came home, he’d been packing.

And he’d already had a furnished apartment to go to. So even before that, he’d been planning.