“White-water.”
I stop pacing. “You?”
“Yes.”
“You seem like a museum membership kind of man.”
“I contain multitudes.”
“That’s pretentious.”
“I may have a tad bit of pretension in me. Comes with being a Baylock…”
He tells me about the river—how the water hits you like it’s personal, how there’s a moment in every rapid where you have to commit fully or you capsize. He likes that. The commitment. Thecalculation. The fact that you can prepare, but you can’t control everything.
“You like risk,” I say.
“I likemeasuredrisk.” He continues, “I thought about taking up climbing. But I saw the aftermath of a fall. Open tib-fib fracture. Internal bleeding. It ended badly.”
I wince. “So you like to flirt with danger but not marry it.”
“That’s one way to put it. Amber was certainly the safe choice. Or so I thought.”
I almost want to pry into that, but it seems like second date territory.
“And you?” he asks.
“What about me?”
“What do you do for fun?”
I glance down at Walker, who’s now awake and staring at the ceiling like he’s contemplating philosophy. Or peeing.
“I’m more of a…chaos architect,” I say.
He hums thoughtfully. “That tracks.”
“How so?”
“You strike me as the type of person who figures out what she wants and never stops until she gets it.”
I try to stop my laugh from sounding nervous. I’m not sure I manage it. I change the topic. “What kind of music do you like, Damian?”
Rock, as it turns out.
I admit I like trashy pop when I need to reset my brain. He doesn’t judge.
The twins start fussing at the same time. I freeze. There’s a second where I consider lying. Old party-girl instincts—lie to make sure everything seems fine on the surface.
Instead, I say, “Hold on.”
“You alright?”
“Yeah.” I scoop Nicholas up and balance the phone between my shoulder and ear. The crying softens quickly.
“You sound…busy,” he observes.
“Just life,” I say lightly. “Or at least, my life now. Is that too weird for you?”
