I held him for a while then whispered, “Snow keeps up, will you take me to your place and bring me back to my car tomorrow morning? I don’t like driving in it.”

He didn’t answer for several long seconds.

Then he said to the window, “Yeah, babe.”

I pressed my forehead into his back.

Then I lifted my head away but pressed my body closer and carefully said, “He’s not taking his nausea medication. You need to talk to him about that.”

I looked over his shoulder at his profile and saw a muscle in his jaw jump. He made no verbal reply but I knew he heard me and he’d do what he could.

Then I gave him a squeeze and kept whispering. “Take that plate, honey, and go sit with your dad. He’s got the game on. I’ll make another one for me and be out in a minute.”

He nodded to the window.

Then his body moved. I let him go and he walked to the bowl. He looked at it and walked back to me. Then he lifted both hands, cupped my jaw, and tilted my face up to his so he could touch his mouth to mine.

When he lifted his head, I whispered, “He loves you.”

He closed his eyes, that suffocating feeling suffused the room before he opened them and whispered, “I know.”

“I love you too.”

His eyes got soft, the weight in the room lifted and, he repeated his whispered, “I know.”

“We’ll get through this,” I promised.

He didn’t look like he believed me and he didn’t repeat himself again.

“Go eat. It’s getting cold,” I ordered.

His eyes held mine a moment before he let me go and walked back to his plate.

I made my own, took it out, and watched the Nuggets game with Brock and his father.

Cob held down the soup, crackers, and one of the cupcakes his granddaughter baked that I ran out to my car to bring in.

The Nuggets won.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Somewhat Good for Now

“GONNA SWING BY Dad’s with this TV then I’ll be over.”

I had the phone to my ear, Brock on the line, and I was sliding a chicken into the oven.