Page 139 of The Homemaker

I do know that. I also know Cameron is standing in my garage having this conversation with me because Alice and I did not use condoms. “I know that sometimes you think you won’t need them … until you do. And I know it’s really hard to stop once you reach the point of?—”

“Dude, seriously. I have condoms.”

I nod a half dozen times. “Yep. Great. So uh … this is called a lathe.”

Cameron hangs out in the garage with me for over two hours, by the time I go into the house, the girls are in bed, and Alice is putting the finishing touches on Cameron’s sweet sixteen birthday cake. The Everly Brothers’ “All I Have to Do Is Dream” softly plays from my grandfather’s turntable in the living room.

“I sent a picture of the cake to Rose. She’s so in love with it, and she thinks Cam will love it too.”

I rest my forearms on the counter. “Baby, are those edible soccer balls?”

“Yes. I made fondant, bigger white balls then smaller white and black ones that I stuck to the outside of the big white one to give it the soccer ball pattern, gently rolling the whole thing just to slightly flatten and connect all the little balls. Aren’t they cool?”

Everything about my wife is cool, and wonderful, magnificent and awe-inspiring.

“It’s perfect. Wanna know what’s not perfect?”

She glances up, nose wrinkled while grinning. “What?”

I drop my head between my shoulders. “Cameron solicited my advice about asking a girl out on a date, and I fumbled the ball. I said some stupid shit then managed to segue it into a condom conversation that just got more and more awkward until I bailed.”

Alice giggles. “Aw, I’m jealous that you got to have the sex conversation with him.”

I jerk my head up. “Jealous? Baby, there’s nothing to be jealous about. In fact, I think the best way to parent is to let someone else do it and just live next door and be more like grandparents that can spoil them, then hand them back. Really, we should see if Rose and Jonathan want to raise Mia and Sophie.”

“Stop!” She laughs, wiping her hands, then carrying the finished cake to the fridge. “You know what you need?”

“Lessons on how to be cool in a sixteen-year-old’s eyes?”

“Murph, you only have to be cool in my eyes.” She pulls something wrapped in butcher paper from the fridge, thenshe slides her favorite cast iron skillet to the front burner and ignites it.

Oil.

Garlic.

Rosemary.

Salt and pepper.

Once it’s heated, she tosses the steak into the pan to sear it. I can’t remember the last time she made steak at nine o’clock at night.

“You need a little of this.” She adjusts the heat a smidge. “And a little of this.” She gives me her hand. “I have one last slot on my dance card.”

I grin, sliding one hand behind my back while offering her my other on a slow bow.

When she accepts, I jerk her into my arms, making her gasp.

“I saw Hunter Morrison today,” she says.

“Oh?” I lift my eyebrows as we sway to the music.

“He was at the park. Apparently, he’s taken up drawing, so he was sketching a tree.”

“No Vera?”

She shakes her head. “Vera’s in New York watching her granddaughter while Blair opens a second gallery with her husband. That could have been you.”

“Hmm …” I twist my lips. “A stuffy life in New York or screwing my homemaker in a secluded area by the lake just after lunch every day.”