Carla is on the phone with me Tuesday afternoon discussing the details of where I live and how she's going to get here. But she got distracted asking me how my husband was doing. I don't even get the whole story out before she screams at me, "You did what?"

"I kissed him?" I repeat. "What part of that was unclear to you?"

"Well you never told me! How long ago was it that we were on that tour outside Vegas and you still didn't tell me you kissed your husband!"

"Carla, can you lower your voice just a decibel or two? I'd like to keep my hearing."

"That's long gone. Lorena blasted it out weeks ago in that limo."

"Still," I press. "Please."

"Fine, is that better?" She's practically whispering.

"You can talk at a normal volume, just don't try to shout so loud I can hear you without the phone."

"Fine. So you kissed your husband before Divya's wedding and—"

"Carla, I just told you this."

"I wanted to hear you say it again."

"I kissed him again last night. Are you happy?"

"Very. What happened? Were you being cute and stuff?"

"He brought home flowers after work and it was late and I was tired but he was so adorable so I just stood on my tiptoes and kissed him."

"Awe," she sighs into the phone. "True love right in front of me. It's like a fairytale."

"Don't get ahead of yourself, Carla. I just exploded a stuffed chicken breast, so it isn't exactly domestic bliss."

"I'm not one to judge about burnt food," she says. "So, can you tell me again—"

I don't hear the rest of what she says because someone is knocking our front door off its hinges.

The phone lays abandoned on the couch and I pace the floor, debating what to do if there's a literal bear at the door. My heart is in my throat when I finally round the last corner and can see through the opaque glass that lines the side of the door. It's definitely not a bear. It's a person.

A few tentative steps forward and it's obvious that Maeve is the culprit banging down the front door.

"I'll be right there," I call out. "One moment."

"I need help," she shouts again. "I locked my keys in the house."

The deadbolt barely twists in my fingers, but I finally get it unlocked and Maeve tumbles through the door into a small heap on the floor.

"Are you all right?" I bend down to help her up. "What's wrong?"

"I'm fine. Yes, I'm fine. Close the door dear or Charles will get out."

There they go with Charles again. I actually haven't lost anything in a couple days, but I close the door to appease her as she continues telling her story.

"I was cooking and I went outside for some herbs. I keep them on my back porch, you see. And I can't figure out how I did it but when I went back, my door was locked. And Cogg is in there alone with the oven on. That cat and ovens don't mix. So you see I have to get back in fast."

"Of course. What can I do? Do you need a phone?" I have no idea where I left my phone, only that Carla is probably still calling out for me. Oops.

"Why would I need a phone? No! I need the keys!"

This woman is not thinking straight. "I don't have your keys, Maeve."

"Yes, you do. They're in the kitchen above the fridge marked with my name."

"I do?" I need a step stool to reach above the fridge and by the time I even get the cabinet open, Maeve is bouncing with urgency.

I stuff my head as far into the cabinet at it will reach. "Sorry, I can't see them, I— Oh, never mind. Here they are."

Her hand reaches out toward me, fingers curling as she clutches the keys in her hands. "Thank you," she whispers, racing out the door and down the street before I even have time to say 'you're welcome.'

I'd almost forgotten she was ever here until I was fixing myself a sandwich in the kitchen after my failed attempt at dinner. She burst right back through my front door with an ear splitting smile on her face. "Thank you so much, dear. My supper was saved and my cat is just fine. I'm just stopping by to return the key." She hands it back to me on top of a casserole dish covered in foil. "I also wanted to give you that as a thanks."

"I didn't do anything." But I will accept the offer of food.

"You burnt the chicken, dear. The nose knows."

"How did you—?"

"I might have been in a rush, but that doesn't stop my senses from working. Now you take some of that and eat it. There's plenty of it to go around. You don't even have to tell him I made it."

"Why wouldn't I tell him you made it?"

"Why indeed?" She smiles and turns to head back out the door. "Just try to remember you're both only human, okay?"

"Okay, thanks!"

What was that supposed to mean?

The dish, as it turned out, was a shepherd's pie. And it was also exceptionally cold by the time Enrique crashed through the door, dropping his bag onto the floor in a heap.

I want to complain about the day I've had but his face has aged at least three years in one day.

"What's wrong?"

"Fight," he says simply, falling into my arms and squeezing me in a hug.

"I know, I got your text." I wrap my arms around him in return. "Is everything okay?"

He holds up his arm to show a wrap probably applied by the school nurse.

"Oh, my God! Are you okay? Do you need me to get you anything?"

I don't mean to be funny, but he laughs at me. My first instinct is embarrassment, but I push that down. He's had it hard enough.

"I'm fine, really." He wraps me up again and smooths down the top of my hair before kissing my head. "But thank you for your concern. I actually feel better now."

"Good. I have food for you. Mrs. Gallagher brought it over and told me to tell you I cooked it."

"That sounds like her. Why did she come over?"

"She locked herself out of her house and apparently you keep everyone's spare keys above your fridge."

"I do, yes. I should probably have told you that."

"You think? Anything else you've been hiding from me?" I lead him into the kitchen and pull out a plate to serve him some of the shepherd's pie.

"I think I should ask you that question," he says, pulling up the foil on his own casserole dish. "Do I want to know what this used to be?"

"No." I shake my head and race across the kitchen to grab it from him. "No you do not. It's classified."

"If you tell me, you're going to have to kill me?"

"Precisely. Now, eat." I try my best to put on a tough face, but it just comes out humorous and we both start laughing.

"I'm going, I'm going," he says, raising his hands in mock defeat. "I'm sure it would have been delicious if you didn't burn it while helping Mrs. Gallagher."

I look him dead in the eyes across the island. "Enrique, I love you, but we both know that's not how I burnt the chicken."

His jaw drops slightly and his fork remains poised above his dinner.

"What?"

He doesn't even have to answer when I realize what I've said.

"I have to go take out the trash," I lie, racing up the stairs to my bathroom and shutting the door behind me.

Okay, just don't hyperventilate. You'll be fine.

I'm hyperventilating. So I have to think about my breathing by drawing small squares on my knees.

I'm in the middle of a line when Enrique's voice carries through the door, low and sweet. "I think it's obvious by now, but just in case it wasn't, I love you too, Bianca."

I'm going to pretend I didn't hear him. I can't believe that just happened. How did I end up with so much to lose?