"Hey babe," Phil was lying on the bed shirtless, his massive pecs and deltoids on display, ready for sleep. "Could you come home early tomorrow? Tomorrow's kinda nice date and I wanna take you out for dinner, or maybe we could have dinner at the house?"
I looked at Phil's warm hazel eyes. We had such a rowdy year last year, what with the pandemic and my father's death and the rejection of our adoption application, that was the last straw, and he was putting in moves to rectify our relationship. At least that was what the marriage counsellor suggested after we failed our adoption application.
And I still loved the guy. Deep down, I knew I lucked out in marrying him. He was the Adonis, the handsome quarterback, the McDreamy of this relationship while I was the petulant nerdy kid from across the street. We met our second year in college, we were each other's date to the sophomore's ball, and (blush) had lost virginity to each other. We were each others' first, and if powers that be would have it, the last.
But I could not sweeten the jab when I asked back, "Can you cook, though? Remember the last time?" Half of our kitchen was black with soot from the fires that Phil always managed to produce when he was manning the stove or God forbid the grill. It was his only weakness, the only thing that was not quite right with his supposed alpha-maleness, this inability to harness a grill to his will. "Maybe you could have Scotty help you."
Phil let out a tiny groan. He hated Scotty my younger brother, and the hate was entirely mutual. I didn't know what the issue was, one day they were the best of friends, then suddenly out of nowhere the two were at each other's throats like cats and dogs, except quieter and more civilized. But enough was enough, someone in the room had to be the adult. "I've decided. Scotty will help with the cooking and you will do the prep work." Phil let out a huge sigh, accepting his defeat.
"Okay, but if anything breaks it's your brother's fault."
