“Ugh, Michigan has the best weed.”
He nods his agreement, settling onto the couch next to me.
“I don’t smoke as much as I used to, but honestly, I’d rather do this on an evening after a long day than beer or wine,” he says.
“Same.”
It only takes him a few minutes to get it prepped and to light it. He holds the cone between his lips and inhales, then blows the smoke out and passes it to me. It’s been a grip since I had a chat with Mary Jane, so I take a measured toke. The warmth fills my chest and I exhale, already feeling the relaxing effects.
I pass it back and watch him hit it again. His knee is probably only an inch away from touching mine, and it’s not lost on me that this is the closest we’ve been, especially alone. But things actually feel fine between us. No weirdness or awkward exchanges. That’s one of the things I enjoyed most about that night. We fell into conversation so easily. Just like now. And it’s not the weed.
He makes a joke about Banks being a pretty boy and confides in me that Killian is in a chess club. I tell him about the body I worked on today, and he asks a dozen questions fueled by genuine curiosity for what I do. Usually, I’m met with shock laced with a hint of disgust.
“Do you ever think about what it would be like to have a mom as an adult?” The question pours out of me, and it’s how I know I’m good and high.
“Yeah,” he says. “All the time. It would be nice to have someone to call for that specific brand of advice.”
“Or to just be able to go home to them and let them feed you.” I lay my head back and stare up at the ceiling.
“Yeah.” He tilts his head back and stares up with me.
No one says anything for several minutes, and I’ve managed to sink myself another inch or two into this comfy-ass couch.
“We should get some snacks,” I say, imagining the delight of having a mozzarella stick in one hand and possibly one of those brownies I made in the other.
“I’ll be right back!” Waylon pops up from the couch and disappears into the kitchen. I hear a cabinet open and close, and a drawer next. I don’t know what he’s bringing me, but it will taste even better because I didn’t have to get up to get it.
He returns a few minutes later, leaning down to hand me a bowl before taking his seat on the couch again.
“Oh my god, did you make sundaes?” I sink my spoon into the delicious mound of ice cream before he can answer.
“Actually, it’s a banana split,” he says, pointing at the banana in my bowl. But I don’t care.
“Wait, I have something for this,” I say, reaching into the bag next to me. I place two gummy worms on top of each of our sundaes. They don’t really make sense, but I’m going to eat them anyway. And to my surprise, Waylon rolls with it too.
I spoon soft vanilla ice cream, chocolate syrup, and whipped cream into my mouth. My second bite has a generous chunk of banana and gummy. All I hear for a beat is the sound of our spoons clinking against our bowls. Then it’s interrupted by his phone buzzing on the armrest.
He flips open his notifications, balancing the bowl on his lap as he taps with one hand and shovels a spoon into his mouth with the other.
“Oh shit,” he says.
“What’s wrong?”
“My friend KJ is having lady problems,” he says. “They’ve been on the outs for a while, but it’s coming to a head.”
“That sucks,” I say. “Should they end things?”
“Probably. It’s gotten unhealthy.”
“Do you need to go?” As soon as I ask, I realize I hope he says no.
“Nah, I’ll call later.”
I try not to show my relief. “Are you sure?”OH MY GOD, STOP ASKING HIM.
“Positive.” Waylon smiles at me, then winks his stupid cowboy wink like he should also be tipping his hat, if he were wearing one.
The butterflies in my stomach get a little excited, so I internally yell,CUT THAT OUT. And they do. For the most part.
