Leah
COWBOY:
how the hell did you guess Flintstones so fast??
Ibite back a smile as I unlock my phone.
It's been almost three weeks since our first date. Nick's life has been especially busy lately. He's juggling work, his first Christmas with Grady, a trip to Fort Worth to see his family, and a guys' trip to South Texas.
As for me, my family has been … well, my family. Add in every church obligation imaginable and hosting our extended family from Louisiana, and I've been stuck in my own chaos of holiday cheer.
Needless to say, Nick and I haven't had much time alone.
We both agree we picked a hilariously inconvenient time to start a relationship, but somehow we've made it work.
Between quick phone calls, endless texting, and a Christmas night video call after Grady went to bed, we've carved out whatever moments we can.
Our newest way to connect? Online Pictionary.
Me:
You forget I teach tiny humans. Half my day is deciphering drawings
COWBOY:
a 5-year-old could've drawn better stick figures
Me:
but you knew to draw the orange shirt and blue necktie
and the cute car :)
COWBOY:
that was supposed to be a couch
Me:
couch* dang autocorrect
COWBOY:
you're cute, but you're full of shit
“Girl, what is with the smile?” Rachel catches my attention, waving her menu at me. “I have never seen you so giddy.”
“Giddy?” I set my phone beside my water before picking up my menu and pretending to study it. “I don't know what you're talking about.”
Matt and Rachel got the rest of the nursery furniture for Christmas, and once it was all in place, she decided the walls were the wrong color. With Matt and my parents helping host a winter conference in Dallas for the next few days, Rachel enlisted me to help repaint the nursery.
We've spent most of the morning at a home improvement store debating the subtle differences between approximately four thousand shades of gender-neutral gray.
Now, with two gallons of the winner in the trunk, I'm treating her to lunch at a local café and bakery before we head back to start painting.
Across the table, Rachel lowers her menu instead of taking the hint. “Are you still talking to that older guy with the kid?”
I roll my eyes. “That older guy with a kid is named Nick. You know that. And we're more than just talking.”
Rachel folds her menu and sets it on the table. “What does that mean?”
I shrug. “We’re seeing each other.”
“Since when?”
“Since we went out earlier this month.”
“Hold on.” She narrows her eyes. “You went on a date with him? And you didn't tell me?”
“And what? Get a lecture from you and the entire family?”
“The fact that you knew we'd lecture you should've been your first clue that maybe you were doing something you shouldn't.”
I smirk. “Thank you for proving my point.”
“Are y’all ready to order over here?” Our waitress steps up with a pen in hand.
We place our orders, and Rachel waits until the waitress has topped off our drinks and moved on to the next table. The second she's out of earshot, Rachel turns her attention right back to me.
“Did y'all kiss?”
I choke on my water.
“Oh my gosh, you did.” She leans closer. “Did y'all make out?”
I cough into my napkin before taking another sip of my drink.
Rachel goes still. “Leah, did he talk you into having sex?”
I scoff. “Honestly … how dare you say something like that.”
Rachel recoils. “I'm just asking. You barely know him, Leah, and he's what? Almost ten years older than you?”
“That doesn't mean he had to talk me into anything.”
“Okay, but according to Declan, he's a manwhore—”
“That's coming from a man I chose to leave, Rachel.
A man I have a court order against. He doesn't know Nick, and neither do you! How dare you suggest something so … so vile about him.” I take a deep breath, my anger ebbing enough for me to notice my nails digging into my palms. Uncurling my fists, I flex my fingers beneath the table.
“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snapped at you like that.”
Rachel quietly nods, her hand drifting over the curve of her belly as her eyes drop to the table. “When you said you have a court order against Declan ... were you talking about the alimony?”
Crap.
I didn't mean to say that.
My thumb mindlessly draws figures through the condensation on my glass. “No. It's just something my attorney thought was necessary. I shouldn't have brought it up.”
Her eyebrows furrow. “Necessary for what?”
“Nothing I want to get into right now.” I keep my eyes on the glass. “And please don't say anything to Matt.”
Rachel rests her hand on my wrist. “Okay. I won't.” Her thumb brushes lightly against my skin. “But just so you know, I'm in your corner. Always. Whatever it is, whenever you're ready, you can tell me—”
“Here we are.” The waitress appears beside our table, balancing two chicken salad sandwiches with a steaming cup of tomato basil soup. A pile of homemade potato chips spills across the side of each plate. “Y'all enjoy.”
I untuck my napkin. “For the record, Rach, we haven't had—”
Rachel shifts suddenly in her seat, one hand pressing against the side of her belly as her face pinches.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” She lets out a breath that turns into a laugh. “This little one is sitting weird today. I swear, he or she has been trying to rearrange my organs since breakfast.” She reaches for her sandwich. “Why women want to do this multiple times is beyond me. I told Matt we are one and done.”
I swallow my first bite. “I thought y’all wanted more.”
“Matt wants more.” She scoffs. “Don't get me wrong; I love this baby very much, but I've done my part.
I've been nauseous, swollen, constipated, kicked in the ribs, and I haven't seen my vagina in months.” She hisses again, massaging her abdomen as she repositions in her seat.
“If Matt wants another one that badly, he can figure out how to grow it himself.”
“Uh-huh,” I tease. “You say that now, but give it six months, and you'll be telling us you're pregnant again.”
“Ha.” Rachel points a potato chip at me. “You assume I'm letting your brother touch me again.”
I chuckle. “Fair.”
“Maybe you'll be pregnant in six months,” she retorts.
I raise an eyebrow. “Me?”
She snickers, finishing her bite. “Yes, you.” She lowers her voice. “Are y'all using protection?”
“Rachel!” I drop my sandwich.
“What?” She takes a sip of water. “I'm just being realistic. Men have needs, and—” she holds up her hands—“Nick is no different. In fact, he's worse. He doesn't know the Lord.”
Heat floods my face as I bite down on my cheek.
Nick isn't a wild animal. I'm so sick of reducing men to thoughtless balls of testosterone and using that to excuse their behavior, as if decency and self-control can only come from God, as if they have no choice but to stick their penises anywhere and everywhere.
And then, in the same breath, the church tells women that we will be grateful—and pleased—for those wild urges when we're married because apparently, a man's inability to control himself becomes a blessing once there's a ring on his finger.
Men can be absolute dogs, but it sure as hell doesn't seem exclusive to men outside the church. And so far, Nick has shown me more gentleness and restraint than I ever got from my God-fearing husband
“We're not having sex.” My eyes meet Rachel's. “Just for the record. And he's not pressuring me.”
She nods thoughtfully. “Is he only talking to you?”
“Rach—”
“Honest question.” She holds up her hands. “I'm not trying to be hateful. I'm looking out for you.”
“Yes.” As far as I know. “We're talking exclusively to each other.”
Dangit, Leah, now why did you say that?
Nick and I haven't actually talked about being exclusive. I guess I just assumed he was talking only to me. I mean, when would he have time for another woman? We've barely seen each other as is.
Unless he's hooking up with other people
Which would be fine.
I think.
We're not a couple, and he's never promised me anything. So why does the thought of him with someone else bother me so much?
Gosh, this dating thing as an adult is weird.
Rachel shifts in her seat again, pressing a hand to the side of her belly before adjusting her position. “Are you going to eat your pickle?”
The corner of my smile lifts as I nudge my plate to her.
“Oh, thank God.” She plucks it off my plate, and takes a loud, satisfying crunch. “You're already spoiling your little niece or nephew.”
“Giving you my pickle is spoiling them?”
“Yes.” She takes another bite. “And if you have any chips left when I'm done with this, they're going to need those, too.”
We share in a laugh before she quickly groans. “I better visit the ladies room. Again.”
“Do you need help?”
“I need a new bladder.” She braces a hand against the table and pushes herself to her feet, pausing long enough to get her balance. “I'll be fine.” She waddles toward the restroom, one hand planted at the small of her back.
I chuckle, reaching for another chip. Before I can pop it into my mouth, my phone vibrates against the table.
I smile when I see the name of the incoming call. “Hey, Picasso.”
“Hey, beautiful. Are y'all painting yet?”
“Not yet. We're having lunch at Red Nose.”
“Mmm,” he murmurs. “Best damn chicken salad in town.”
“Right? That's exactly what I'm eating.”
“Please tell me you got one of their brownies.”
“Are they good?”
He groans. “You seriously need one.”
“Do I?” I giggle. “Maybe we'll get one to go. Rachel loves them.”
“Well, she has excellent taste.”
I smile, settling deeper into my chair. “Are you almost back?”
“Almost. We stopped for gas. But, listen, I've got a problem.”
“What's wrong?”
“Eddie's wife's mom passed away this morning, and he was on tonight. He got someone to cover most of the shift, but—”
“They need you,” I finish.
“Just for a little while.” He sighs. “I'm sorry. I thought we'd be able to see each other tonight.”
The disappointment comes quickly, but I push it aside. “Oh, that's okay. I completely understand.”
Rachel returns to the table and carefully eases herself into her chair, taking a moment to get comfortable.
I swat half-heartedly at her hand as she steals some potato chips. “Do you know how long you'll be there?”
“Hopefully not too long. Can I call you when I'm done?”
“Of course.” I smile.
“Talk to you later, beautiful.”
“Looking forward to it.”
I end the call and set my phone down only to find Rachel carefully watching me from across the table.
“What was that about?”
“Oh, it was Nick. He went hunting with some friends and is heading back this afternoon.”
“He went hunting in this weather?”
I laugh. “I don't think he actually did much of the hunting, but yes, it's deer season, and one of the guys’ ... has a blind? Or he knows a guy? Something like that.”
“And he's calling because …?” She takes a sip of her soup.
“We had talked about getting together for a little bit tonight, but work called. They need him for a few hours tonight.”
Rachel dabs her mouth with a napkin. “Y’know? That's something to think about.”
“What is?”
“His job. His son.” She shrugs. “There are always going to be things he has to put first. How do you feel about that?”
I snort sardonically. “He has responsibilities like the rest of us, Rach. I wouldn't want him to ignore them for me.”
“I'm not saying he should. I'm asking if you're okay with being second.”
“I'm not …” I pause, considering her words.
“That's … not really fair, Rach. He has multiple things that are important to him, and the priority is going to change depending on the situation.
Tonight, he's helping someone out because their mother-in-law died.
That doesn't mean he chose work over me. It's really not that simple.”
She peers at me for a few moments, a soft smile curling her lips. “You're really falling for him, aren't you?”
I suck in my bottom lip, nodding. “He's a really good guy, Rach. I'm trying to take things slow, but every time we talk, he just …” My cheeks swirl with heat as I avert my eyes to my sandwich.
“He what?”
The corner of my mouth curls. “He makes everything so easy.”
She sighs. “Just be careful, okay? And if y'all do cross that bridge, don't let Matt find out. And maybe … y’know, get him tested.”
“Rachel, good grief …”
The waitress appears beside our table with a brown paper bag. “Can I get you ladies anything else this afternoon?”
“Just the check, thanks.” I reach into my purse for my wallet.
“Let me get it—”
“Absolutely not. I offered to take you to lunch. Consider this more spoiling.”
“Actually …” The waitress smiles, glancing between us. “The bill's already been taken care of.”
I pause. “What?”
“A Nicholas Crawford took care of it. And he wanted y'all to have these.” She sets the paper bag in front of me before reaching inside and pulling out two wrapped brownies.
Rachel stares at the desserts, then at me. “He paid for everything?”
“And he left a very generous tip,” the waitress adds with a bubbly chuckle.
I bite back a smile as I unwrap the brownie. “Y'know? Maybe you're right, Rach. Maybe I will be pregnant in six months.”