“That’s like ten thousand brownie points,” says one of the husbands.
“Respect.”
Sumner has been walking toward me slowly, as if in a trance, and now he blocks everyone and everything out with his ridiculous size. I inhale the sight of him, this man who has occupied my every waking thought since the last time I saw him, standing in my bedroom looking so fierce and frustrated and . . . sure of me. Sure of us. “You made me soup, sweetheart?”
It is a powerful thing, the way my heart begins to hang glide around my chest as soon as he’s close to me. “It’s probably terrible.”
“You remembered. And you made it. There’s no way it’s terrible.”
“Why is everyone so quiet?” I whisper.
Sumner reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “My grandma used to make broccoli cheddar soup. No one has made it since she passed. It was her thing.”
“Now it’s your thing,” said Sumner’s mother. “Britta’s famous broccoli cheddar.”
“This calls for a live taste test,” Syd yells. “Someone go get a spoon.”
“On it, honey,” sighs a husband, turning for the house and returning less than thirty seconds later with a fistful of spoons. “Here we go.”
“Oh, no. Really?” My voice is muffled when Sumner pulls me up against his chest, wrapping his arms around me and kissing the crown of my head. “Can’t we wait until everyone is drunk?”
That gets a round of laughs out of the family, but no one heeds my suggestion. Sumner’s sister opens the passenger side door and unbuckles the soup, then drops the container unceremoniously on the trunk of my Honda. Pops off the lid.
“Should I go first?” she asks.
Sumner drags me in that direction, still locked in his arms. “No way.
My wife made that soup. I get the first bite.”
I bury my face in his chest, groaning. Therefore, I sense, rather than see, someone hand Sumner a spoon. I use one eye to peek as he dips the
utensil into the still–piping hot broccoli cheddar soup, bringing a giant-size bite to his mouth. I’m momentarily mesmerized by his long corded throat and how it flexes when he swallows, but then I’m zipped back to reality, because he’s laughing.
And I can’t help it. I kind of start laughing, too, because it’s a relief to have a verdict either way. Not to mention, this whole scene is bananas. I’m standing in the street with my in-laws, who I was never supposed to meet, but they have now become a broccoli cheddar soup focus group, and the fact that this meeting is so unconventional is easing my nerves in a way I couldn’t have expected. “It’s that bad?” I ask him, still laughing.
“No. It’s that good, Britta.” I’m so shocked by this statement that I’m not prepared when Sumner tosses the spoon onto my trunk, draws me up onto my tiptoes, and plants a kiss on me, right there in front of his entire family.
They cheer, whistle, and bang on the roof of the car.
“Happy birthday,” I stammer against his lips when he draws back, my pulse going haywire over the look in his eyes. It’s . . . affection. The deep kind that I’ve never experienced.
“It’s more than happy.” He picks me up and carries me toward the house, locked tightly against his chest. “It’s my best birthday yet.”
Chapter Nine
SUMNER
Don’t get me wrong, I love watching Britta get to know my family. I could lean against the living room wall and witness their bond form forever—and I damn well plan on it. The way she starts laughing easier and easier with my sisters. How she answers my mother’s nine thousand questions about Sluggers, how we met, and if she wants babies someday （also, how many?）。 The patience she employs with my father when he launches into the intricacies of the Canadian economic system.
Britta is . . . fucking dynamite.
And they adore her. Just like I knew they would.
Just like I do.
My wife made me soup. I’m not sure I’ve ever been so close to tears in my life. And I wasn’t lying, the soup was an eleven out of ten. It doesn’t taste exactly like my grandmother’s, but that’s one of the things that makes it perfect. It’s uniquely Britta’s, and it’s not here to replace anything. It’s Britta’s spin.
Speaking of Britta and spins . . .
I really, really need to take her for one.
In case that wasn’t clear, I need to get her underneath me. Or on top of me. Or bent over something, just anywhere and any position, goddammit. It has been one hellish week since the last time I was inside this girl, and I’m about to lose my mind. Coming inside her once wasn’t even enough for one night, let alone a week.