“Since December?—”
“And it’s almost Halloween. Which means I am due for an adult night of fun. I need this. And I want it to be with Damian.”
Olivia softens. “You’re getting in deep.”
I blow out a breath, stalling. “Liv, I can’t stay away from him.”
That’s the part that scares me. It’s not the taboo. Not the age gap. Not even the Jason-of-it-all. It’s that I think about him constantly. His voice. His laugh. The way he says my name like he’s decided something about it.
“That’s probably because he’s their father,” Olivia says gently.
“I am not having this conversation.”
“You should.”
“Tomorrow,” I insist. “Tonight is about fun. How do I look?” I bought a new dress for the occasion—it’s looser than what I usually wear, with a flattering A-line skirt that hides everything I want hidden.
She sighs, but she doesn’t push again. She’s taking the twins to her place. I’ve triple-checked the diaper bag. I’ve written instructions like I’m deploying overseas.
“You look great, and you deserve a fun night,” she says as she heads for the door. “Just…don’t lose your mind.”
“No promises.” I kiss my babies and close the door behind them. It feels wrong to see them leave. Like she took part of me with her when she left. I don’t like it.
But I also need a night of grown-up fun, or I’ll go nuts. Tonight is about fun. And brisket.
And a man who makes my pulse misbehave.
Damian’s “favorite barbecue place” is exactly what I hoped it would be. No linen. No spun-sugar desserts. Just picnic tables covered with red-and-white checked tablecloths, walls covered in faded concert posters and local high school football photos, dented wood paneling, and the kind of smoky air that makes your hair smell like happiness for two days. There’s even a serve yourself soda station in the corner.
He’s already there when I walk in.
Jeans. Dark sweater. Sleeves pushed up just enough to expose forearms thick enough to make me sigh.
He looks up when the door opens. And smiles. It’s not polite. It’s not restrained. It’s unabashedly pleased to see me. “You came.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I’m happy to see you, that’s all.”
That does something warm and inconvenient to my stomach. He’s just so honest that it throws off my usual dating MO.
Normally, I manipulate men for fun. It’s a part of dating—you use them to get what you can before they fuck you over. That’s the truth of dating and relationships, even if most people don’t say it out loud.
My mother taught me this. After putting her life on the back burner to put my father through college, he jumped on the first skinny blonde who looked his way. And the second one. And the third. His affairs went on for years, and when Mom finally called him out on his cheating, he shrugged and said, “I do it because you let me.”
It took a long time for her to even file for divorce. She was middle-aged and had no education of her own, since she dropped out of her master’s program to support my father.
I will not be my mother.
I learned young that men will always fuck you over, even if they say they love you or they’re trying to be a better man or whatever excuse they give for their bullshit. So first, you have to fuck them over as much as they’ll tolerate. Then you break up and move on to the next one. It’s not personal. It’s reality.
But with Damian, I don’t have the urge to fuck him over. I just enjoy his company. Which is dangerous, I know, but I like him.
We order at the counter. Brisket. Ribs. Mac and cheese. He doesn’t even glance at the menu.
“I’ve been coming here since residency,” he says as we carry trays to a table. “It’s the only place in town that doesn’t pretend to be something else.”
“I approve,” I say, eyeing the sauce bottles lined up on the table. “This smells like heaven.”
