“I’d like to go to church today.” The corner of her mouth inches upward. “Rachel and Robbie used to take the kids to church every week, but I haven’t managed it yet. Getting them all dressed and out the door is such a production.” She pauses, probably picturing the kids and all their delightful difficulty in her mind. “But I’d like to go today. Do you want to come with me?”

I’m a pure cynic when it comes to religion. Besides funerals, the occasional wedding, or services on the base with my mother when I was a kid, I don’t do church. But I hear myself say, “Yeah, I’ll go with you.”

We leave Cousin It at Chelsea’s house, where Chelsea changes into a demure short-sleeved yellow dress with matching high heels. I follow the crowd at Mass, the kneeling and standing, but mostly I just watch her. The way her lips touch her hands when her head is bowed in prayer, the serene expression on her face as the priest gives his final blessing.

We stand outside my car in the parking lot of the church. “I don’t know what to do with myself.” Chelsea laughs humorlessly. “All these months there never seemed to be enough time, and now that there is . . . I don’t want it.” She glances my way. “You have that thing you do on Sunday afternoons, right?”

She’s noticed I disappear every Sunday—but she’s never asked me about it. I wonder if she was waiting for me to tell her about it myself.

“Yeah, I do.”

She nods and just as she starts to look resigned to a lonely afternoon, I say, “You want to come with me?”

Her head whips back to me. “Only . . . only if you want me to.”

“There’s someone I want you to meet.”

• • •

I hold Chelsea’s hand as we walk down the halls of the Brookside Retirement Home. Marietta is just exiting the Judge’s room when we get to his door.

“Hey, Jake.” She greets me with a wide smile.

“Hi, Marietta. How’s he doing today?”

“Oh, honey, he’s having a really good day.”

I blow out a relieved fucking breath. The last thing I wanted was to make Chelsea more depressed than she’s been—and the Judge on a bad day is not a happy sight.

I nod past her and walk into the room with Chelsea just behind me.

He’s reading in his leather chair by the window, dressed in a dark blue sweater and tan slacks, those ugly brown loafers on his feet.

“Hey, old man.”

His face is alight, his eyes confident and wonderfully aware. “Jake!” He closes his book and rises, wrapping me in a strong-armed hug. “It’s good to see you, son. How are you?”

“I’m doing good, Judge.”

His eyes fall to Chelsea and he throws me a wrinkled smirk. “I can see why.” He offers her his hand. “Hello, my dear, I’m Atticus Faulkner.”

Chelsea shakes his hand with a huge smile. “I’m Chelsea McQuaid . . . it’s wonderful to meet you. Jake’s told me all about you.”

“Salacious lies, I’m sure.” He winks. “Sit down, sit down. Let me get you some tea, Marietta just brought me a pot.”

Once we’re seated, with our cups in front of us, the Judge tells Chelsea, “You are beautiful, my dear.”

And cue the blush. “Thank you.”

“Now, I must apologize in advance, Chelsea, if I say or do anything that makes you uncomfortable. I . . . forget things . . . very quickly and often lately.”

Chelsea smiles—and she’s more lovely than any of the saints on her church’s stained glass windows. “Don’t worry. If you forget, we’ll be here to help you remember.”

And for the fucking life of me, I don’t know how she’s gotten by without filing a shitload of restraining orders, or without gifts and cards and flowers clogging up her mailbox every day. Because as I watch her with the Judge, I don’t know how anyone could know her and not ridiculously, pitifully love her.

• • •

Later that night, Chelsea and I are back at her house . . . soaking together in the oversized bathtub off of her bedroom. She sits in front of me, her back against my chest, her hair pinned up, a few damp strands hanging down, tickling my face. She’s been quiet for a while now—only the sounds of the water rippling against the side of the tub disturb the silence.

“What if we lose tomorrow?”

My lips linger on her shoulder. “We won’t.”

“But what if we do? Will they”—her voice cracks—“will they let me see them? Have visitation?”

She turns around to face me and I choose my words carefully. “I know people . . . who can find out where the kids are. And I know other people who make IDs—passports and stuff. Good ones.” I trace my finger along her jaw. “So . . . if we lose, I’ll call those people. You’ll take out any money you can . . . and you’ll just go.”

“Like . . . to Mexico?”

I chuckle. “No. The glowing-white McQuaid skin would burn to a crisp under the Mexican sun. Maybe . . . Canada? I wonder if Regan would pick up French faster.”

Chelsea stares at me, and her eyes seem a shade darker. Deeper. “You would do that for us?”

My fingers splay across her soft cheek. “I can’t think of anything I wouldn’t do for you.”

And that fact scares the ever-loving shit out of me.

The water tips over the edge of the tub as she rises up on her knees, straddling my hips. We kiss for minutes that feel like hours. Her hand dips below the water, stroking me even though I’m already hard and hot in her palm. And when she lines us up, sinks down, it’s slow and gentle. My arms wrap around her, pulling her closer, closer, and I kiss her breasts, toying with her nipples with my tongue. Her hips rise and fall; I move within her at a steady, unhurried pace.