THE RIDE BACK from Connecticut went by in a blur. Mary was quiet as she watched the darkened highway speed past her windows. John held her hand across the back seat, but he could apparently sense her need for quiet.

She didn’t speak at all until they were latched behind the door of their Airbnb bedroom, across the house from Ty and Fin and Kylie.

“Do you see why my age has been a sensitive subject for me?” she asked, finally breaking the quiet between them.

John let out a breath that sounded like a tire being popped. “Good God, yes. I totally understand. That was awful. She’s an undeniably hard person, Mare. I think it’s gonna take me a year to process everything that just happened.” He flopped backward onto the bed, his arms flung out above him. Rolling his head to eye her across the dim room, he squinted. “I think I need to apologize even more for saying—”

She laughed and held up a hand. “We’re past that, sweetheart. You’ve made it exceedingly clear how you actually feel about my age. How you feel about me.”

Mary bit her lip and turned away from John, taking out one earring and then the other, slicking her dress over her head and staring at herself in the dim light. She looked shadowed and mature and confident. She replayed certain parts of the evening in her head.

“Did you mean what you said tonight?” She turned to him in just her bra and underwear and watched his eyes get stuck on many interesting parts of her body.

“Yes,” he answered huskily. “I’m not sure which part you’re referring to, but I meant everything. Every word.”

She stalked toward him, threw a knee over his hips and pinned his hands next to his ears. His lips quirked and his eyes heated. “What about the part about having kids?” she asked, her heart tripping against her ribs. “Did you mean that too?”

John’s brow pulled down into a V, and she knew him well enough now to know that he was thinking, not judging. “Mare, what will be, will be. If kids are in the stars for us, I’m not worried about making a family with you. It’ll pan out somehow.”

“That’s how I feel.” She cocked her head to one side. “I’ve never been too worried about it. Which I think worries my mother most of all. As a woman, apparently it’s my God-given duty to worry myself into a raisin over my own fertility.”

“Don’t do that,” he said with a smile. “I’ll love you when you’re a raisin, but I don’t want you to worry yourself into one.”