“Hellooooo,” Deja says from the doorway separating the kitchen and the dining room. “Can I get another slice of pizza if you guys are finished talking about how brilliant and perfect Seem is?”
She flashes a quick grin at her brother, softening the sharp words, and musses his hair on her way to the pizza box on the counter. They may tease one another mercilessly, and are classic big sister, little brother, but they would do anything for each other. They drew closer when the seams of our family started ripping.
“Yeah, I think we’re done,” I say, looking at Yasmen and silently asking for confirmation.
“Um, yeah.” She glances at Kassim, whose expression is serene as he grabs another slice of pizza. “I think we have a plan.”
I stand, jangling the keys in my pocket. “Then I’mma head home. I’m tired and hungry and want to relax for a while. Early start tomorrow.”
I pat my leg twice. “Otis, you coming?”
I always ask, as if the dog gets the courtesy of deciding where he’ll sleep. He could bounce between the houses like the kids do, but he always stays with me. He stands and walks toward the foyer, head tilted to an imperial angle. Conceited bastard. After a bath, he practically struts at the dog park.
“I’ll walk you out,” Yasmen says, standing from the stool and following Otis.
I let her walk a little ahead of me. These damn pants she’s wearing. The material must be hand-sewn by the devil and shipped from hell the way it hugs her ass and hips. The T-shirt crops just above her waist, gifting glimpses of her stomach—smooth and brown and toned. Beneath the top, her breasts hang ripe and overfull. When we were married, she’d walk around the house with no bra to torture me. I never missed an opportunity to drag her into the pantry or into a corner, tug up her shirt, bare her breasts, and suck her nipples. It was our own kind of foreplay. There were times, if the kids were upstairs or out of the house, when I would take her on the kitchen counter. Spread her wide, eat her out.
Jesus, I’m hard.
Not good. Not good at all. There’s no way I can fool myself that this erection has anything to do with my actual girlfriend, who has sent me two texts hinting that she’d like to spend the night. Nope. This is all Yasmen, dammit. I subtly shift in my pants, hoping to rush down the steps and to the car before she notices.
“Hey.” She grabs my arm when I move to walk past her on the porch. “Can we talk?”
With a quick glance at her hand on my arm, I nod tersely and sit in the swing. Maybe ifI stay seated and the porch light is off, she won’t notice the pole stand in my pants.
The motion-sensor light turns on.
Great.
I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees. She comes to sit by me on the swing, stroking Otis’s head. He leans into her palm, eyes rolling in canine bliss.
“That went better than expected.” She pulls one leg under the other. “What’d you think?”
“Yeah. It was pretty good. He seems okay with it.”
“I think…I’m sure you offering to go to therapy with him helped a lot.” She angles a sideways glance at me. “Did you mean it?”
I bend my knees a few times to rock the swing a little. “Damn, Yas. You think I’d say something like that and not follow through?”
“No, of course not. You were just always so adamant about not seeing a therapist when we…when I…well, before, so I was surprised you offered.”
“Am I excited about it? No. Do I think it’ll do anything for me? Hell, no, but if it might help Kassim adjust, I’ll go.”
“I see.” She blinks, her pretty lips shaping into a wry curve. “So therapy might help children or weak-minded people like me, but couldn’t possibly be of any benefit to someone as strong as you.”
“You know that’s not what I’m saying. Don’t twist my words.”
“I don’t have to.” She stands abruptly, the coolness in her eyes not enough to disguise the hurt. “Do you want recommendations? If so, I can get referrals from Dr. Abrams. Or are you just going through the motions to satisfy Kassim?”
Both.
I know saying it aloud would only ratchet up the tension coiling between us, so I blank my expression before I answer.
“That’d be great.”
“I’ll let Ms. Halstead know we’re moving forward,” she says, turning to grab the knob of the front door.
“Yas, hey.” I stand, and this time, I’m the one who takes her arm. “I really didn’t mean to imply I’m too good for therapy or that you’re weak or—”