Chapter 25

Things that had been on the coffee table before—a few magazines, the TV remote, the Wii controller—now rest on the floor, flung there unceremoniously by my eager son. “Straighten those things up,” I tell him. When he pouts, I warn, “Or no pizza.”

It buys us some time. He busies himself with shoving the stuff from the top of the coffee table onto the floor beneath it, allowing Greg to set down the boxes so I can dish out slices. By the time Tyler’s back in his spot, his plate is already loaded with two slices of steaming cheese, and his eyes widen until they threaten to eclipse his face. He swoops in to take a bite, but I caution, “It’s hot.”

He picks the cheese off first—that’s the way he likes to eat it. Strange, I know, but then again, he’s seven. Greg sits beside me on the couch, so close our thighs press together with a pleasant warmth that, to me, seems hotter than the pizza on my plate. I lean into him and murmur against his shoulder, “Thanks.”