One thought cracks through. I want to tell him. I want to say,You delivered our sons. You named them without knowing it. You’d probably feed them soup too.The words sit right at the back of my throat.
He doesn’t push. We sit in the quiet for a second, just breathing through the line. I like him. I like him a lot. And that might be the worst part.
But then time catches up to me, forcing a yawn. “Crap.”
“Everything okay?”
“You know how the phrase isdog-tired?”
“Yes.”
“It should bemom-tired.”
He laughs lightly. “Need to go?”
“I hate to admit it—God, it’s only nine thirty? I used to wake up at nine thirty.”
“At night?”
I nod as I speak. “Just enough time to shower, get dressed, do my hair and makeup, and pregame before the good clubs get slammed.”
“You really were quite the fun girl in college, weren’t you?”
“Yeah. College.” And right up until last year. “Time for bed, I guess.”
We say our goodnights, and he promises to call again soon. When we finally hang up, it feels like stepping out of a warm room into cold air.
The silence in my living room is loud. Nicholas is asleep on my chest. Walker is dozing in the swing, pacifier bobbing lazily with each breath. The house smells faintly like formula and whatever lavender candle Olivia insisted I light “for good sleep.”
I stare at my phone. He said he’d call again. Not text. Call.
Seriously, who does that?
Apparently, men who white-water raft and feed soup to stray dogs. I shouldn’t like that as much as I do.
I shift carefully, easing Nicholas back into the bassinet. My body protests the movement in twelve different places. It’s too soon to be thinking about anything physical with Damian. Every time my brain wanders toward memories of New Year’s Eve, something in my abdomen reminds me I am, in fact, recently rearranged internally.
But liking someone? That’s allowed. I think.
I text Olivia to see if she can take a call, and she answers on the first ring. “Spill.”
“He called.”
“Well, how did it go?”
“He’s…good.”
“Good how?”
“Feeds-soup-to-stray-dogs good.”
She goes quiet for a second. “Oh no.”
The ugly reality is staring me in the face, so I might as well address it. “He’s too good for me, Liv.”
“Details.”
So I tell her all the details, including our flirtatious brunch interactions, and even she’s mooning over the guy. “He really is perfect.”
