CHAPTER SIX #2
“You didn’t have an issue with the prince and the orphaned maid falling instantly in love, but you get hung up on the mom and rock star thing?” he teases.
“She didn’t know he was a prince. And he didn’t know she wasn’t a princess. They didn’t fall for each other’s personas. They just knew each other, soul to soul.”
He tugs me to him until my head is resting on his chest and his chin is snug against the top of my head, tucking me into the most wonderful cocoon I think I’ve ever been enveloped in. “Damn, I’m going to have to rewatch Cinderella now.”
“Good answer?”
“Perfect answer.”
We stand like this for a while before we slowly begin to untangle again and continue our walk.
The beach is magical in every way. The balmy breeze is soft and warm but not sticky, and the cloudless sky makes for a stunning view of the crescent moon and stars as far as the eye can see.
We’re not the only ones out here tonight (or this morning, depending on perspective I suppose) enjoying the beauty mama earth has to offer.
A handful of women were sitting on blankets looking out over the ocean and chatting amongst themselves when we arrived.
We’ve passed two early morning runners, and in the distance, I can see another couple, just like us, walking hand in hand along the water.
“What do you suppose Cinderella and the prince talked about after he found her again the next day?” I ask, wondering for the first time ever how that part of the story played out.
“My guess is, he asked her how the hell she ran out of there so fast in one tiny glass slipper.”
I laugh. “Fair point. I think we all want to know the answer to that one.” Speaking of shoes not meant for running, I ditched my heels as soon as we left Denny’s. My feet demanded it. Angrily. Now that my toes are free, and in the sand, they’re loving me again.
“Then I think they probably got right to the important stuff.”
I’m intrigued. “Which is?”
“What side of the bed. Thoughts on whipped cream on pie. Pie, in general. And, of course, whether or not they believe the Bermuda Triangle is real,” he rattles off like he’s been thinking about this list for a while.
“I can see the value in discussing the bed thing. I need to be on the left, by the way.”
“Why do you need the left?” he cuts in before I can go on with my assessment of his idea of important stuff.
“Because that’s my side of the bed.” I thought I just covered that.
“Technically, aren’t both sides of the bed yours?”
“Yes. All sides of my bed are mine.” Despite what Sloan may think on nights when she falls asleep while watching movies with me. That girl doesn’t just hog a blanket, she hogs the whole damn setup. And it’s a tight squeeze to begin with.
“So, why the left?” he keeps at it, smirking like he finds this whole thing entirely entertaining.
“If you must know,” and clearly, he must, “when I was twenty and had my first apartment, my closet was haunted. And it was on the right. So, I slept on the left, with my back to it.”
“Only your closet was haunted?” He laughs.
“Yes!’ I realize this sounds ridiculous.
“I think whoever it was left something behind in there because they constantly seemed to be looking for something. My clothes were always falling off the hangers and one time, my entire shoe rack was knocked over. I mean, I felt bad for whoever they were, locked in their eternal search with no chance of ever finding what they were looking for, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t freaked out at night, lying in my bed, watching my linens move on the top shelf. ”
He’s still laughing. “Why didn’t you just close your closet?”
“No, shit.” I shake my head. “Obviously, I tried that. Never stayed closed. And watching that shit slide open isn’t any less freaky than watching the contents be rearranged.”
“Fine,” he concedes at last, “you can have the left side of the bed on one condition.”
He says this like we’re sharing a bed already. Last I checked, we don’t even sleep in the same state. But I’ll play along. “What’s the condition?”
“You can’t sleep with your back to me.”
I smile. “Deal.” Then I realize, “Wait, do you sleep on the left too?”
“I used to.” He grins. “Now I’m sleeping in the middle.”
“Because you have the whole bed to yourself?” I conclude. I guess that’s what most single people do. My current bed doesn’t really give me that option. If I’m in it, I’m taking up left, right and center, and one of my feet is probably still dangling off.
“Because you’re sleeping on the left and I’m not leaving room for another whole damn person between us,” he informs me, somewhat indignantly, like I should be following along with this conversation better.
“Right. Sorry.” Now I’m the one laughing at him. “Let’s move on. What’s your deal with pie?”
“I have no deal with pie,” he says frowning. “Other than it’s the reason God created dessert!”
I scowl. “Oh, dude. You couldn’t be more wrong. Chocolate cake is the reason God created dessert. Pie? Pie is barely even dessert-like. You can make pie out of squash and root vegetables. I don’t recall ever having to worry about my chocolate cake supplying my daily serving of vegetables.”
“Worry? What are you talking about? That’s the best part! You can eat dessert and your veggies at the same time, so you’re eating healthy without knowing it,” he reasons.
“Are you putting whipped cream on your veggie pie?”
“Obviously. Are you against that too?”
“Would that change things for you? You know, with us?” I can’t even keep a straight face through that.
He does though. “I think we both know it would.”
“Wow.” I shake my head, laughing. “Also, whipped cream is full of sugar. As is your pie. So, it’s not healthy.
No matter how you spin it, which just makes it a waste.
Because you could be eating straight-crap dessert, as all dessert should be, with the full, delectable flavor of a straight-crap dessert, but instead you’re settling for veggies in a bland crust, soaked in sugar.
Still crap. Just with former nutrients and less of the yummy factor.
” I press my lips together and raise my brows at him. “Face it, Knox. Pie sucks.”
“I suppose next you’ll want to tell me the Bermuda Triangle is made up too?”
“You’re talking to the girl with a ghost in her closet,” I remind him. “Obviously, it’s real.”
For a moment, we both wait it out, and I’m almost pleased to see he’s as stubborn as I am. Then we both crack at the same time, laughing at each other, and I’m even more thrilled to find he’s also just as easily amused and unlike my ex-husband, doesn’t take banter so seriously he takes offense.
“Alright then,” he says as both of us quiet down again, “if my list seems so trivial to you, what would you deem most important to cover right out the gate?”
“Hm. Good question,” I pretend to ponder.
“Don’t even try me,” he pokes my side, tickling me. “I know you have a whole list ready to go already.”
“Fine.” I grin, like an idiot. I don’t think anyone’s ever had me so pegged so fast before. “Just so you know, my list is serious, for real, important stuff.”
“Just so you know,” he says dipping his head toward mine. “You didn’t have to add that disclaimer.”
I can feel my grin attempt to stretch wider, but my face is out of room.
So, I close my eyes, take a breath, and get real motherfucking real.
“Most valuable thing you can share in a relationship. One thing you refuse to tolerate. And,” I pause to look up at him, “the last one is a scenario with multiple choice.”
“Go ahead.” He nods for me to continue.
“Imagine a couple that’s been married for a while and has a baby.
Nah, let’s make it a toddler. It’s evening.
After dinner. Before bath. And before bedtime.
The husband is more than ready for some alone time with his wife, but she’s still running around cleaning up the kitchen, finishing up the laundry and picking up toys.
Does he, A, wait patiently until she’s able to finish her work, get the baby to bed and focus on him without being distracted or B, does he stop her and sit her down for a serious chat about his feelings regarding not being a priority and how he’s desperate for her attention? ”
“You want them answered in order?” he asks.
“Totally up to you.”
“In order it is.” He nods. “Most valuable thing you can share is trust. One thing I can’t tolerate is hate.
And C. He cleans as she cooks, so there’s barely anything left to do after dinner.
Since he hasn’t seen his kid all day, he can’t wait to do bath time, giving her a chance to catch up on the laundry she started earlier.
Then bedtime is a family affair. Stories.
Snuggles. The whole damn thing. And after, he follows her around the living room with the toy bin while she collects the toys from the day, giving them a chance to chat and pay attention to each other.
” He shakes his head. “What the hell kinda options were A and B?”
I shrug. “The ones my ex went with.” I can barely keep from beaming.
I figured he’d be smart enough to recognize the last one was a trick question, but I expected c to be something along the lines of, he got off his ass and did the chores while she got the baby ready for bed.
Knox’s answer was so much better than that.
“No offense, but your ex sounds like a douchebag.” He wiggles my hand a bit, as if we’re shaking off the mention of him. “What about you? Where do you stand on those things?”
“You’re going to think I’m copying you,” I admit.
“But trust is my number one thing too. It’s the one thing you can’t repair once you break it.
Can’t replace it or rebuild it or whatever the fuck other terminology you want to throw at it.
Once it’s broken, there’s just no coming back from that.
” And I’ve tried. A lot. No amount of forgiveness can make you forget.
Not to mention, those who broke my trust, always did it again when given the opportunity to.
“I’m with you on the hate thing as well.
But I probably would have answered intentional ignorance.
Which, I kind of think tends to amount to the same thing. ”
“What I’m hearing is, where I tend to try and just shut the bullshit down, you go about trying to enlighten the idiots.”
“I don’t really know why I bother. I don’t think I’ve managed to persuade anyone into the shining light of love and tolerance yet,” I mutter grimly.
“I’m glad you bother,” he says, squeezing my hand. “I often wish I had the patience to try that route.”
“Hot head?” I ask.
He laughs uncomfortably. “I mean, I don’t want to lie to you, but I don’t really want to claim that flaw full-on either.
” He gets serious again. “Yeah, I can be. Certain things can definitely still trigger that side of me. But,” he says, stepping ahead and turning to face me even as we walk, “I believe we’re always able to grow and learn and evolve, and especially in the last decade or so, that hot head side is one I’ve been working hard at understanding and changing.
” He slides in beside me again. “What about you? What would you say is your least likeable flaw?”
“Easy. I’m super judgmental.” Then I realize how that sounds and add, “but not in the way most people think when they hear that word. Like, I don’t judge people for their choices or mistakes or lifestyle, or what-the-fuck-ever.
I’m all about ‘you do you’, just don’t hurt anybody else while you’re doing it.
But,” and this isn’t really any less unpleasant, “I will absolutely judge someone for being weak or not using their allotted brain power to the fullest extent. Which sounds like I’m saying I judge people if I think they’re being stupid, and I do, but only if I know they could have been smarter. Make sense?” It’s still not pretty.
“Makes sense.”
“Are you going to judge me for being judgey?” I ask, suddenly regretting having just come right out with that. I’m sure I have other flaws. Milder ones. Ones women think are flaws but men don’t. I’m sure I have something like that.
“Do you feel like I’m judging you right now?
” he sounds surprised. “Babe, this is a safe space. You and me, what we’re doing here, this all cards on the table shit, isn’t about changing how we feel about each other or altering how we see one another, it’s just about you knowing me, and me knowing you.
And I do want to know you, Kenley. Every last part you want to show me.
I’m here for it. And I don’t plan on looking away. ”