CHAPTER 19 Tatum Barker
Full Planner Mode
The wedding was a success, and I sleep in on Sunday morning in Kenzie’s casita only to wake up to the smell of bacon.
My first thought of the morning is of Ford.
Because of the bacon. That man loves his bacon.
I grab my phone and send him a text.
Me: Good morning. My friend’s place smells like bacon, and it made me think of you. [bacon emoji] Good luck at today’s game! [football emoji] [flexed bicep emoji]
His reply is immediate, and it has a photo of a plate with scrambled eggs and a pile of bacon.
Ford: Team breakfast this morning.
I giggle.
Me: Looks perfect for you.
Ford: The only thing that would have made it better is having you here with me.
I stare at his words as my chest tightens.
He means as a friend, right?
Archer’s words come back to me again, likely for the millionth time since he spoke them. He’s in love with you, you know.
No, I didn’t know. And no, he’s not. We’re friends. Close friends. The best of friends.
But when I think about faking it on Thanksgiving and how I didn’t really want to be faking it, well, I just end up in a pit of confusion that I can’t seem to climb out of.
Me: Lol. They wouldn’t let me within a block of that place on game day. Score me a TD, k?
Ford: I’ll do my best.
I leave it at that and emerge from my casita, where the bacon smell carried, and head toward the kitchen.
Kenzie’s two kids, a boy and a girl named Cassian and Kapri, are strapped into highchairs while Cody brings them milk in spillproof cups, and Kenzie flips pancakes at a griddle.
“It smells delicious in here,” I say.
“Good morning,” Cody says with a smile, and they really are just the sweetest family.
I look at the photos Kenzie often posts on her Instagram, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s really all as perfect as it seems. All blonde hair, blue eyes, wide smiles, the brightness levels turned up, and the exposure adjusted to perfection.
And as I walk into their bright kitchen that almost appears to have had the exposure adjusted this morning, it actually is as perfect as it seems.
Cody walks over and loops his arm around his wife’s waist, bending to kiss her cheek, and she giggles as she flips a rocket ship-shaped pancake likely meant for Cassian and a star-shaped pancake that’s probably for Kapri.
Then I spot the molds she used to create the space-themed pancakes beside her on the counter. It looks like I’ll likely be getting a moon or a planet with rings around it if I don’t get the rocket ship or the star. Honestly, when I’ve seen these things, I had no idea who might actually use them.
Kenzie and Cody, apparently. That’s my answer.
“Can I do anything to help?” I ask.
“We’ve got it all under control, but thanks,” Kenzie says. She flips the last few pancakes onto a plate, and Cody brings the plate to the table while she pulls a pan out of the oven with bacon on it. She brings the bacon over a moment later, and the adults sit to eat with the kids.
They pray first, and then they start dishing out the food.
“I’ve never seen a two-and-a-half-year-old eat bacon the way Cassian can,” she says, setting a cooled piece on his tray. He grabs it and immediately puts it down, and she gives him a second piece while I watch Kapri, the fifteen-month-old, pick up the pancake and chew on the corner of it.
They’re adorable. This whole entire scene is adorable, and it pulses something in me that I wasn’t expecting. Something I wasn’t planning on.
I want this.
I want the husband who kisses me on the cheek while I’m cooking pancakes, and I want the two cute kids with pink cheeks, and I want the pancake molds and bacon late on lazy weekend mornings. Out of season, anyway. I want the perfect exposure photos with the reality that backs them up.
I want a family of my own.
I felt the twinge when my brother visited Ford’s on Thanksgiving, but this is now the second family with young kids I’ve spent time around, and it suddenly feels like time is running out.
I always wanted kids someday, and I guess I sort of assumed that Archer and I would get it together and have our own family eventually.
But that’s off the table now, and that dream of my own perfect young family feels like it’s slipping away.
I’m already twenty-seven. Even if I got pregnant today, I’d be twenty-eight by the time I had a baby. With the second, I’d be thirty or older. That’s if I got lucky enough to get pregnant right away without the types of complications so many women face.
Maybe perfection is a fantasy. Kenzie got lucky enough to find it, but just because it’s in my face right now doesn’t mean it’s the norm. It’s more of an exception, I think. An anomaly.
I finish breakfast and help clean up, and then I tell Kenzie that I need to head into my little office to work.
I do, actually. I need to work. I have to finalize the details for Archer’s garden party that’s set to take place in five days. Kenzie has handled most of the details while I’ve been out of town, but this is still my business. My brand.
My ex.
But I also sort of have this need to get away from the happy little family. I want to give them their space to enjoy their usual Sunday activities without feeling like their fifth wheel.
I put Ford’s game on my tablet while I mindlessly work through the details on my laptop.
I have my three usual cups, but I left my favorite one at Ford’s place on accident.
Or maybe it wasn’t an accident at all, and it was my subconscious leaving something physical behind as a way to pretend like that’s all I was leaving there.
But the longer I spend apart from Ford, the more I can’t believe that to be true.
The week feels long. I feel weird calling him now that Archer said Ford is in love with me, so I keep it to texts that somehow keep managing to turn flirty.
I bury myself in work. I plan all the details for the local weddings I have coming up, and I even spend a little bit of time on Devon and Lindsay’s wedding as I schedule a time to take them to view Winston Manor next week.
I’ve handed so many of the little details off to Kenzie over the last two years that I find I’m enjoying making these plans with Lindsay.
I guess that means I’m returning to Tampa next week.
Ford could take them. A little voice in my head reminds me of that. I mute said voice.
I want to get back to Tampa. I want to see him.
I want to feel whatever it is I’m going to feel when I’m around him to see if it’s real or some manufactured thing I’m feeling because I’m flailing after a breakup and being around the perfect family while I plan other people’s weddings. It has to be that combination…right?
Ford calls me once on Tuesday evening to check in, and we chat for a while about the charity event I’m holding for Archer. We talk again on Thursday, but it’s brief since he has an appearance.
Eventually Friday rolls around, and I’m busy all day with the final preparations for this evening’s event.
I’m in my cocktail dress when the band arrives, and every last detail has been perfected.
Archer’s foundation creates scholarships and equipment donations for underprivileged kids, and tonight’s party came with a pricey ticket and a selection of raffle prizes donated by Archer’s teammates—not because he asked, but because I asked the girlfriends and wives of other players.
The atmosphere is warm and inviting with the string lights and the acoustic band warming up in one corner of the garden before the guests are set to arrive.
We’re serving hors d’oeuvres and champagne, and the gardens have high-top tables for guests to stand near with their food.
I created two specialty cocktails for the event, both of which are quite expensive so we can wring every possible penny out of guests tonight.
The Vegas Heat is a spicy margarita with a flair, and the Curveball is a whiskey and peach concoction.
Everything is ready, so I grab myself a Curveball to calm my nerves when I spot Archer walking in.
He beelines right for me, tugging at the buttoned collar of his dress shirt. He was always uncomfortable in a shirt at all, let alone a dress shirt. I never minded when he’d walk around the house shirtless with those gorgeous abs served up on a platter, to be honest.
“Thanks for your work on this. It looks great,” he says. He orders himself a Curveball, too, and once it’s in his hand, he holds it up. “To raising a bunch of money tonight for Archway.”
I tap my glass to his, and we each take a sip.
“Anything you need me to do?” he asks.
I shake my head. “It’s all under control.”
“You’re the best.”
I shoot him a tight smile, not sure I really believe his words considering where we find ourselves at the moment.
Guests start arriving, and I’m in full planner mode as I keep tabs on catering, manage photo opportunities as I introduce guests to each other, and make sure Archer is mingling and always has a drink in hand.
Everything is going smoothly. Too smoothly. When it’s going off without a hitch, I try to remind myself it’s because of my careful planning. I never really believe it. My brain always goes to if it’s too good to be true, it probably is.
Archer catches my eye from across the room.
It used to be so comforting when he did that.
We rarely ever spent time together at these types of events because he always put me up to the task of entertaining everyone while he sipped a drink quietly in the corner with one or two people at a time.
I chalked it up to him being an introvert intimidated by events like these, but I’m not really sure that’s true.
I’m not sure he’s an introvert at all as much as he’s just protective over his personal space.
He let me in there once.
He said he wanted me back, but it seems like the door is closed now. He gave me his blessing to be happy, and that’s all I want, too.
And as Ford’s face flashes through my mind, I think I’m finally untraining the years of practice I had assuming my happy ending would be with Archer.