“But you work early.”
“I don’t care. I can deal.”
She contemplates.
“Go.” I point and watch her slowly walk into the bedroom, shutting the door softly behind her.
* * *
It isn’t until 11 p.m. that I leave. I changed Emma, swaddled her, fed her and rocked her to sleep before successfully transferring her into the bassinet beside Karissa’s bed. Karissa was out like a light. Didn’t even hear me come in. I kissed her forehead and left quietly.
When I get back to the big house, I’m surprised to see Mason here this late. It’s not that it’s unusual, it’s just usually not a good sign.
I hear Dad’s voice first, low and serious. “Just ask her if she’s seeing anyone.”
Then Mom chimes in, “Or at least ask if she’s married.”
I round the corner slowly, not wanting to intrude on the conversation, but definitely curious.
“Oh, hey, how’s Karissa?” Mom asks when she spots me. Dad and Mason both glance up from where they’re sitting, like I caught them midscheme.
“Not great,” I admit.
“Yeah.” She nods. “She seemed tired today when she came up to help with lunch prep.”
“I don’t know what else to do for her,” I say, sinking down onto the couch next to Mason.
“Maybe Sunday you could take Emma off her hands for a while? Bring her up here for the afternoon and Karissa can rest.”
“Yeah.” I nod. “Already planned on it.”
I glance at Mason, who’s suspiciously quiet. “What’s up with you? Girl got you messed up or something?”
He lets out a soft laugh, slouching back against the couch. “Not messed up. Just…thinking.”
I lift a brow. “What’s her name?”
“Megan.”
“Alright.” I grin. “And where’d you meet this Megan?”
He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly all bashful. “Went to the elementary school earlier this week with Travis to talk to the kids about safety stuff. She was the teacher. Super sweet. And, I mean…gorgeous, man. Like—”
“Like, made you sweat?” I tease.
“Oh yeah.” He groans, rubbing his face. “By the time we were done, the back of my shirt was soaked under my vest.”
We all laugh, and he cracks a sheepish smile. That’s Mason. Always been easy to impress, quick to fall. Acts fast, speaks faster, no filter to save his life. Since we were kids, he’s been like this, moving a hundred miles an hour, even when he didn’t know where he was going. Played sports, not because he loved the game, but because he liked the rush. The running. The energy. The adrenaline.
Track was his thing all through middle and high school. It was the only time he ever looked calm…when he was sprinting.
And now, here he is, midtwenties, still sweating over a girl like it’s the first time he’s seen one.
“Did you get her number?” I ask, already half sure of the answer by the way he hesitates.
He rubs a hand over his face. “I wanted to, but it felt weird. In her classroom, kids everywhere.”
“So you just left?” I guess.
