Daisy! In the car. I’d totally forgotten.

“That would be good. Great,” I said. “Thanks, honey.”

It took time to transfer the twins to their own beds, to strip off Daisy’s shoes and socks, to put DJ in a clean diaper, all without waking them up. I turned out the lights in the babies’ room and eased the door shut, still thinking of those roses.

John had always been better at actions than words. Maybe we didn’t have to talk, I thought. Maybe I could show him how I felt.

And maybe I was afraid of where our conversation could go.

“It’s not like I’m going to quit my job,” he’d said.

John was waiting in the hall. He stuck his hands in his pockets when he saw me. “You want that wine now?”

Yes. No. If we went downstairs, down to the crumbs on the counter and the bills by the door . . . Definitely no. Better to stay upstairs.

“Jo opened a bottle of wine with dinner,” I said. Keeping my voice low, so I wouldn’t wake the kids. “I probably shouldn’t drink any more tonight.” Casually, I walked toward our bedroom with its sturdy door lock and comfortable queen-size mattress. Hoping John would follow.

A load of unfolded clothes sat in the middle of our bed.

Okay. I could move the laundry basket to the floor. Or . . . We didn’t have to do it in bed. When we first bought the house, we’d made love on the living room floor. Under the Christmas tree. Even on the washing machine, once. Before the bills and routines, before the scars and stretch marks.

“How is Jo?” John asked.

“Oh. Well.” I blinked at him, distracted. “John, she slept with Eric.”

“The chef guy? Good for her.”

“I’ve always wanted Jo to find somebody.” Automatically, I reached for the laundry basket. “But he’s so much older than she is. Divorced. With two kids. Not to mention he’s her boss.”

“Do I need to go to New York and beat him up?” He was smiling. Half-serious. I knew Jo privately considered my husband kind of dull, but he was a good man. Protective. And he’d always been fond of Jo.

“All I want is to take care of you,” he’d said. “You and the kids.”

I folded his briefs in thirds. “She says not. She came on to him, she says.” Poor Jo.

“That doesn’t sound like your sister.”

I reached for a nightshirt, keeping my hands busy while I told John the rest, slowly relaxing into my sister’s tale. It was nice, talking about something besides our schedules and the twins. Like the old days, when we’d critique our friends’ romances and congratulate ourselves on how lucky we were.

“Then last night they had a big fight about her blog, and she quit,” I concluded.

John folded a T-shirt in half and then in half again, the way he did before we got married, and put it on the pile. “Bad move.”