4. Dallas #2
We pull into the Walmart parking lot. After they finish inhaling their Happy Meals, I unbuckle them and put them both inside a shopping cart, which is by far the easiest way to keep track of them in a place like this. Their moods have already drastically improved.
We walk inside and make a beeline for the shoe department. I get them each a pair of off-brand tennis shoes. Dawson’s favorite color is green, and Dutton’s favorite is blue. By some miracle, there’s a pair of each in their size.
“Thank you, Jesus,” I breathe, throwing them in the cart, where the boys are having a mini wrestling match.
I stop by the refrigerated section to grab a gallon of milk and my favorite coffee creamer—toasted coconut vanilla. After snagging a few premade kids lunches, a bag of Cheetos, a two-pound tub of strawberries, and a bottle of pinot noir, I head for the self-checkout.
When I start scanning, the boys jump up to hand me each product, fighting over who gets to help Mommy more.
“You can both help. Stop pushing each other,” I scold.
As I’m scanning the wine, an employee comes up to check my ID. I fish it out of my black hole of a purse and thrust it toward him.
“Whoa. Careful, little monkey,” a deep voice rumbles from behind my back.
I flip around to see strong, veiny arms saving Dawson from nearly face-planting onto the linoleum. My heart jumps in my throat, and I lunge forward.
“Dawson! What are you doing?” I screech.
Duke, the owner of the distracting muscular forearms, chuckles while balancing him back inside the cart.
“You should’ve seen my mom trying to wrestle me and my brothers through the grocery store. We would pretend the shopping carts were old wagons and ram them into each other. One time, we took out an entire center aisle of premade cupcakes on display for Valentine’s Day.”
The boys appear completely fascinated by him. They’re both staring up at the tall man wearing a brown cowboy hat like he’s a celebrity.
“Is that a weal cowboy hat?” Dutton asks.
The employee hands me my ID back, so I continue scanning the items in my cart, ignoring the quickening pace of my heart and my clenching stomach.
“Yeah, buddy, it sure is. You wanna try it on?” Duke asks.
I open my mouth to protest, but he’s already taken the hat off and placed it on Dutton’s head. His eyes are wide and awestruck for a moment before the hat swallows him.
“My turn! My turn!” Dawson chants.
Duke lets Dutton have a few more seconds with the hat before giving Dawson a turn.
“Look, Mommy, I’m a weal cowboy!” he says, turning to me with a splitting grin on his cheeks.
When I remember how dirty the boys are, I feel a tinge of embarrassment that Duke is seeing them this way. They even added to the filth by spilling ketchup down their shirts from dinner in the car.
“All right, that’s enough. Give Mr. Duke his hat back,” I chide, swiping my card through the card reader.
“You try it, Mommy.” Dawson hands it out to me.
I shake my head. Duke raises a brow.
“Mommy would look so good in the hat, wouldn’t she?” he says to the boys.
I gape at him. I am not wearing his cowboy hat, not after what happened between us a few nights ago at Lucky’s Pub.
But the twins are insistent, reaching so far over the cart that they almost fall together. Duke places his hands on the other end of the cart, keeping the wheels firmly on the floor.
“Try it! Come on, Mommy.” Dutton peers up at me with his pistachio-green eyes.
The card reader beeps and says my card has been rejected.
Great. How embarrassing. Not right now, universe. Please, not right now.
I start fishing through my purse for another card or some stray cash from my last bar shift.
“Mommy, please, please try it on,” Dawson whines.
“Fine!” I say a little too loudly. I turn away from the register, grab the hat, and place it on my head.
“Yay!” The boys clap in unison. “Mommy, you look like a cowboy too.”
My eyes shift from the boys’ faces to peer up at Duke. He licks his lips, nodding. The teasing smile on his face has morphed into a smirk, his intense gaze fixed on mine.
“She looks extra beautiful, doesn’t she?” he asks the boys, who both nod.
I turn back to the register before he can catch my cheeks heat.
I’m still digging through my purse, praying that a bolt of lightning might strike right now, taking out only this register to save me from the current mortification of having to log in to my bank account to see just how much is in the account.
A beep to my right drags my attention back up, and I see Duke’s credit card inserted in the machine.
“Hey! What are you doing?” I stare at his profile.
The purchase goes through, the machine spitting out the receipt to confirm it.
“Just think of it as a tip, for your service the other night,” he says.
He hands me the receipt before scanning the one item he’s holding—a twelve-pack of Budweiser.
I shove the receipt in my purse and place my clammy hands on the cart. “I don’t need another tip. I have cash. I can pay you—”
“Darlin’, do me a favor and just accept it. The guys had a great night.”
He finishes showing his ID to the employee and pays. I’m desperate to escape so I can get home, open my wine, change into a pair of sweatpants, and hide from the confusing feelings swirling in my gut.
“Okay, well, I really appreciate it, and the next beer is on me, if you end up back at Lucky’s sometime.”
He nods, smiling. “I’ll take you up on that.”
Shit. I just invited him to come back and see me at work.
Not a smart idea.
I start pushing the cart toward the exit.
He trails beside me out to my minivan. As I busy myself buckling the boys into their seats, Duke takes it upon himself to load our items into the back.
I shudder to think about what he might see back there, like a beer-stained work uniform and a graveyard of crushed Goldfish.
I finally get the boys in and turn to thank Duke, once again, for the small but very meaningful acts of service that I really hope I don’t look too far into.
“Thank you—again. You didn’t have to do any of that.”
The usual smirk on his face is gone. His eyes are steady on mine. “I know that.”
I open my mouth to say something, but think better of it and close it.
I nod, turning toward the driver’s door, which, of course, he beats me to and opens.
I climb into the seat, trying to remember the last time a man opened a door for me, but I can’t.
It’s been so long that I don’t remember who or when it was.
Too young. Off-limits. Playboy extraordinaire. Healing era.
“Bye,” I tell him.
“Bye, Dallas.”
I reverse the minivan and drive away, refusing to look at him in the rearview mirror.
I don’t even realize until I get home that I’m still wearing his damn cowboy hat.