I toss the phone back to the bed. But almost before it’s down, the alert goes off again, and I dive like I’ve got an opponent trying also to get to it.
WALKER: Get the girls all home safely?
It’s an easy question. And I have choices. Easy answer. Flirt.
ME: It was hard, but I managed. You?
Obviously, I don’t go either way. That would be too easy. And now, I’m not sure what I’m asking. Maybe he’ll know.
WALKER: Little bit, but I managed.
I laugh and it’s the first time in a long time I didn’t wake up and go straight for the anti anxiety breathing exercises, or the anti anxiety squeeze ball, or the meds.
ME: Sexy and funny. Anything else I should know?
It’s just short of asking if he has a woman waiting at home for him. But that’s what I want to know.
WALKER: No serial killers in the family tree. No baby mamas. Or babies. Squeaky clean except for a speeding ticket I would’ve contested but no time.
There’s something so charming about him—or maybe I’m reading charm into the text where none exists, but I don’t care—and I don’t have the kind of defenses resisting him is going to take.
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, all prove that. I haven’t lost sight of my phone because in case a text comes in, I don’t want to miss it. The anticipation is astounding. We text during work, during dinner, after dinner, in bed.
By Friday, I have a text waiting for me when I roll out of bed.
WALKER: Good morning. I have to go to Covington to pick up a load of parts for the shop. Won’t be back until Sunday night.
It’s okay because I have a super busy weekend and today is the only day I have to get everything ready. I have signs to put out and balloons to order, cookies to bake. The staging on Saturday’s house has been done, but I still need to check on Sunday’s.
Still, I would’ve found a way to squeeze him in if he asked. Since he didn’t, I don’t offer either. I will not be the eager girl throwing myself at him.
ME: Safe trip.
WALKER: Thanks. Can I text later?
I ignore the shiver of excitement. The blast of happiness. The electric shock of longing.
ME: Sure.
Playing it cool is way better.
Over the week, I’ve learned that he owns a business where he employs a couple other guys. His best friend is engaged, so we have that in common. And his dad died, but his mom and sister live nearby.
I’ve told him not so much. It isn’t that I don’t want to tell him about myself, I just very much like discovering things about him. In the beginning, I thought he was a player, just a guy using all that beauty and all that charm to talk a girl out of her pants and her panties. I’m also not as ashamed as I should be that I was considering how to make that happen even before I knew more than his name.
Instead of just asking for what he wants or me asking him to bend me over and do me, I spend all the next week just chatting. Asking how his day is, how things are going at work, what he’s having for dinner. I hope for an invite every time I ask. but one never comes.
ME: Is it weird how we met?
I know what I mean. I mean is it weird for him that we met at a bar even though I’m not allowed to drink, and that I only came over because it was a dare I didn’t have a choice but to take. Especially since it was my game to begin with.
WALKER: No. Think of the story we can tell our grandkids.
It’s like the words are typed in neon on my screen. I swallow. Grandkids?Ourgrandkids. If I was the kind of girl who made a ruckus, there would be some serious ruckusing going on right now.
Someday, of course, I want kids. I want the guy, the house, the kids, even the damned dog. It’s the dream I sell at least once a week to some bright-eyed soon to be married couple and I want a little piece of it for myself.
But to see it color on my phone, spelled out, with a guy as the faceless husband I sometimes imagine is a wholly different occasion. And my heart is going like a freight train.
