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Summary
The groceries beat Jack to Robby’s place, but not by much. The milk’s not even sweaty. There’s a good chance one or both of the house’s inhabitants are asleep when he opens the door, so he resists the urge to belt out a cancel worthy Ricky Ricardo impression. The curlicue-script-on-a-heart sentiment of it is definitely swelling in his chest, though. Home. This was almost his home, eleven years ago. He tiptoed right up to the threshold, then stumbled back. Now he’s powering through the door with about thirty pounds of freight per arm, because fuck multiple trips. Robby and the baby are waiting for him.
Series
- Part 4 of Save a Motorcycle, Ride an ER Cowboy