“Did you love her?”
Her question is instant, as if springing from a brooding curiosity. Not if the sex was good or about how we were together or asking me to make comparisons, which I couldn’t do. No one has ever compared to Yasmen. I’m assuming no one ever will.
“No.” I can give her that. “I told her from the beginning it was my first try at dating since our divorce, and I wasn’t ready for anything that serious.”
“Could you have? Loved her, I mean.”
Maybe if I’d never had you.
I don’t say it aloud, but surely she knows she’s ruined me for everyone else.
“I don’t think so,” I settle on saying. “It wasn’t…like this. Nothing’s ever been like this.”
“No.” She shakes her head, passing her thumb across my mouth, her eyes possessive. “Nothing’s ever been like this.”
We stare at each other, soaking in the afterglow of our lovemaking, relishing the abandonment of our bodies and the stark truth of our words. We both know this has gone way beyond the casual thing I thought we could reduce it to. God, I was a fool to think anything with Yasmen could ever be tamed.
A sound downstairs shatters the silence. The door opening and footsteps in the foyer entrance.
“Crap,” Yasmen says, eyes going wide and panicked.
She scrambles off me, falling on the floor completely nude, but grabbing for the sheets. I leap from the bed, reaching for my jeans, stuffing my legs in as fast as I can. It happens so quickly. Footsteps pound up the stairs and Deja’s voice reaches us just before she does.
“Mom! It’s me,” she yells. “Lupe got sick, so I came home. I didn’t have breakfast. I’m starving.”
We were here alone and didn’t even bother closing the bedroom door. My daughter stands there, rooted to the spot, eyes like saucers, darting between me—shirtless, in jeans that are zipped, not buttoned, belt hanging loosely around my waist—and Yasmen, draped toga-style in love-mussed sheets with actual hickeys visible at the top curve of her breast and scattered along her neck and shoulders.
“Dad?” Deja’s voice squeaks up an octave. “Mom? Oh, my God.”
“Day,” I say, surprised at the evenness of my own tone. “Close the door.”
“But, you—”
“Go wait for us downstairs.” I give her a look that won’t tolerate back talk, nodding to the door. “Close.”
She scowls, outrage or some intense emotion on her face before she slams the door behind her.
I walk over to Yas, cupping her face, tipping her chin up with my thumb. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not.” She drops her head to my chest and releases a long breath. “Did you see her face? This is bad.”
“Get dressed.” I grab my T-shirt from the floor and pull it over my head. “I’ll go talk to her.”
“But—”
“Babe.” I dip to bring our eyes level. “We aren’t doing anything wrong. This isn’t how we wanted her to find out, but it is what it is. We’ll talk to her. I would have liked more time before we had this conversation, but if we’re together, this was inevitable.”
We’re together.
Her head lifts at my words and something melts in her eyes.
I drop a quick kiss on her lips and slap her butt, hoping to ease some of the tension. “Come down when you’re ready.”
When I enter the kitchen, Deja’s foraging in the pantry. Gripping a box of cereal, she glances over her shoulder. We stare at each other for long seconds until it feels like the moment will snap if one of us doesn’t speak.
“You hungry?” I ask, nodding to the box of cereal.
“Lupe was sick,” she explains again in a rush instead of answering my question. “So I walked on home early. It’s just a couple of blocks. I didn’t call because…”