He opens his mouth. Closes it. Reopens. “Do you… time it somehow.”
I nod solemnly. “I used to feel like a human stopwatch. Did the math, had a notebook, at one point I even started a spreadsheet. Which is how I know my left boob is dominant.”
He chokes. “Your left what?”
“Boob. The left one is the overachiever. The right one is the intern who shows up late and forgets her badge.”
He tries so hard not to laugh that he actually bites his lip. “Do people talk about this… normally?”
“Every mom does.” I sit on the new couch delivered today and continue burping her, “I used to talk about concerts and party themes. Now I talk about nipples and sleep cycles like I’m addressing the UN.”
Savannah lets out a tiny burp. “Good job, baby. Round two.”
She roots again. I drape the blanket across me, so I don’t flash him and readjust Savannah as I switch sides, resettle my shirt, and latch her quick and discreetly.
Deacon watches with awe and fear. “So, just to be clear, you are doing biology, logistics, tactical operations, starting a new chapter, a new job, and learned a new skill in like?—”
“And lactation engineering,” I add. “Do not forget lactation engineering.”
He nods slowly. “Honestly, I think you could run the country and do a better job than most.”
“I’m good with running this baby’s digestive system,” I say. “Which is arguably harder.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “I feel like I need a textbook to keep up.”
“You do.” I grin. “It is calledBoobs and Burps: A Strategic Guide to Not Drowning in Milk and Panic.”
He laughs, low and warm, and looks at me like… yeah. Like that.
Savannah sighs and settles in for her second course, and he shakes his head softly.
“You are terrifying,” he says.
“Never underestimate a woman who can produce dinner on command.”
He blinks again. “Never in my life did I think I would be impressed and scared of milk at the same time.”
I kiss the top of Savannah’s head. “Birth control.”
“Or exposure therapy.” He sits down in the oversized chair that matches the couch, like he didn’t just allude to the fact that this is something he wants… I mean, one day, with someone.
But that’s not true. He was very forthright about not settling down, ever, during our late-night app conversations.
“You’re looking at me like I’m —”
I cut him off, “You never wanted to complicate life with the responsibility of family. You were adamant.”
“To be fair, you and I were on the same page with that and so many other thi?—”
“That statement pisses me off. I’m not easily angered. However, I’m hormonal, and everything is?—”
He cuts me off, “Not my intention. Not in the slightest. My point is life changes on a dime. You have a child and are clearly a wonderful mother. I’m looking at a woman who I have,” I pause because Savannah may not be old enough to remember this conversation. “Out of respect for Savannah, I won’t go into detail. Still, clearly, we have some unfinished business to discuss.”
My face catches fire, which makes zero sense. I am not a prude. “Business?”
“I’m trying to be?—”
“We got off to each other. Never met up because you —”
