Chapter 7
LYRIC
I’ve been living with Waylon for three days now.
The first day, I grocery shopped and meal prepped for the week.
I made each of us some protein yogurt with fruit, egg bites with bacon, rice with teriyaki chicken, steak and cheesy potatoes, and a pan of brownies.
He thanked me like four times while trying not to hover.
He would just walk past, crane his neck, offer his thanks, and keep going.
I was given rave reviews on Monday and thanked again after I made us chicken and dumplings for dinner. I’m starting to think he hasn’t had good home cooking in a while. When he eats what I make, he acts like it’s the first meal he’s had in days. Poor fella.
Tonight, I made us some tasty simple tacos with cilantro and lime, and he hasn’t spoken in several minutes and is on his second plate of them.
“Oh my god, thank you,” he says, then sucks the juices from his thumb. Dear Jesus.
“You know, you don’t have to thank me so profusely after every meal.” I giggle.
“Yes, I do,” he says. “Don’t get me wrong, I cook okay. But having someone else do it makes it taste so much better.”
“Well, you’re welcome. And just a heads-up, I have to work late tomorrow, so I can’t do dinner, but there are prepped options you can help yourself to.”
There’s a little surprise registering on his face and possibly a touch of disappointment. Is he bummed that I won’t be here to cook a fresh dinner?”
“Oh, I didn’t realize you had late nights?” he says, his inflection making it sound more like a question.
“Just once or twice a week,” I say, shrugging. “That’s why I prep. Sometimes I don’t know until the last minute, and it was annoying to sometimes have a plan and sometimes be shit out of luck. I got tired of going to the drive-thru.”
“That’s fair,” he says. “And though it will be difficult, I will manage tomorrow on my own.”
We smile at each other from across the island and take a few more bites, when I’m struck with regret about not getting any wine while I was at the store. Today was rough and a glass with dinner would have been excellent.
“Do you have any wine?” A girl can ask, right?
“Umm,” he says. His eyes grow hazy like he’s thinking really hard about something or doing long division in his mind. “I don’t have any wine. But I do have weed.”
I giggle involuntarily. Weed always makes me giggly, even before I have it. I don’t smoke often, but every once in a while your girl likes to get goofy.
“I had a really very bad day,” I admit.
Waylon shoves the remaining half of taco into his mouth, and I’m shocked to see the entire thing actually fits.
“Say no more. You need to relax. Let me go change and I’ll grab it. The sunroom?”
I nod. “I’m going to go change too and put my hair up.” I hop off my stool and deposit my plate into the sink, very excited about the idea of relaxing with a little help from the devil’s lettuce.
I slide out of the black dress pants, white blouse, and chunky heels.
My bra goes next as I reach into my dresser drawer with a specific shirt in mind.
I feel it before I see it. It’s so soft and worn.
I hold up the faded purple T-shirt with a picture of a possum wearing a tiara on it.
To be clear, it’s not a cartoon possum. It’s a photograph of a real possum wearing a plastic tiara not unlike the ones every little girl used to have back in the day.
I cut the neck out of it so the collar wouldn’t touch me too.
It will pair excellently with my ratty gray sweatpants that are slightly too big and sometimes slide off me if I have a lot of weight in the pockets.
I replace my pantyhose with mismatched socks, shove my hair up into a knot on top of my head, and I’m ready to giggle. I grab two glasses of sweet tea plus a bag of gummy worms from the counter as I walk through the kitchen.
The sunroom is warm and the small couch I put in here is deep and cozy. I keep a blanket on it for those times I need to be extra comfy too. Waylon walks in right after me, a small wooden box the size of one for shoes in his hands. But that’s not quite the first thing I see.
Waylon is wearing… glasses. Fuck me, is he wearing those glasses. Tortoise shell, of course—the sluttiest of eyewear material.
“Since when do you wear glasses?” I try to say it as casually as I can, but holy hell, just when I thought he couldn’t get any more delicious, he slinks in here all tall and scruffy wearing black sweatpants and a white T-shirt, and those… those… slutty little man glasses.
“Since always.” He shrugs. “I normally wear contacts. I know Ridge and Killian have seen them, but I’m not even sure about Banks.”
I contemplate saying something like, “They look good,” but knowing it might come out more like, “Those stupid glasses make me want to sit on your stupid face,” I decide to just not say anything at all.
“I got this from Michigan,” he says, seemingly oblivious to my thirst for his trap.
“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.
“Would you consider us friends?”
Waylon’s head snaps to look at me; he’s clearly surprised by my question.
“Of course. Like I said, the guys and I are always gonna look out for you.”
“No, I mean… independently of Darcy. Like beyond just your friend’s girlfriend’s friend. If that makes sense.”
“That doesn’t change my answer. No matter which way you got here, the destination is the same, Darlin’.”
“Don’t call me that,” I say, almost as a reflex, and punch him in the arm.
“I respectfully decline.”
“If you were respectful, you’d stop.”
“Okay, then I disrespectfully decline,” he says, correcting himself.
I roll my eyes and turn my attention to Tater, who’s been sitting on the floor like such a good boy this whole time. I pat the couch next to me, giving him permission to come up now that we’re done eating.
“Who’s the goodest boy?” I say, using my silly baby voice as I give his ears a good scratch.
Waylon studies me as I take his face into both hands and kiss all over his snout. Tater turns over and shows me his belly, so I give it a good scratch too.
“Oh, to be a dog,” he says, shaking his head. “Big sigh.”
“Who needs a man when you can have a dog, seriously?”
“You know, I could be offended, but I totally get it,” Waylon says with a laugh.
We spend another hour talking and laughing, smoke a little more, and then say goodnight. To my surprise, Tater follows me into my room. Waylon is equally surprised but says it’s fine. Although, he’s definitely pouting.
When I crawl beneath my blanket, Tater circles around and settles beside me like the little spoon.
I’m grateful for the cuddle buddy tonight.
I wasn’t lying when I said I had a very bad day.
Sometimes my job is like that. When you’re handling someone’s family, their loved one, emotions can run high, and there’s an immense amount of pressure not to fuck up what you’re doing.
I needed this. And that sundae. And that sunroom smoke session. And honestly? Waylon’s company is up there with these things too. He feels like a real friend, or at least someone quickly becoming a real one. And despite how fucking hot he is, I’m glad for it.
There’s nothing I dislike more than telling Darcy she was right about something. But Waylon does make a good roommate.
Now if I could just stop picturing him naked.