Chapter 38
Thirty-Eight
I like Lucca.
As much as I want to deny it, the total loss of my mind and limbs is proof that I do.
I came home and confessed the whole thing to Lindy, hoping she would lecture me and knock a little sense back into me.
She did not.
Telling Lindy every little detail made me hungry for more of Lucca. Then, last night, I texted him and told him he should come over today.
I texted him.
See? Complete loss of brain function.
Lindy pokes her head into my room. I’m still in a towel, with dripping hair. “Can I borrow your navy shirt?” She taps her chest. “The one with the buttons.”
“Um. Sure. Why?” I don’t remember her saying anything about Brent today.
Her eyes bug. “Hello. Lucca’s coming over. Wyatt and I have to look our best. When will he be here, anyway?”
My jaw falls, but no words escape. She’s getting ready for Lucca? Wyatt, too?
“Wyatt wants to wear the jersey Lucca gave him. Do you think that’s too much?” Her nose wrinkles. “When did you say he’d be here again?”
I swallow. “I didn’t.”
She riffles through my closet until she’s found the shirt she wants. “So, when?”
I clear my throat, nerves tapdancing over my skin. “Uh. Two.”
“Perfect. And don’t worry, I plan to take Wyatt to the park with a buddy to give you two a little alone time.” Her brows waggle, and I refrain from smacking them right off her face.
“There’s no need to make any arrangements. Wyatt can stay. And he can wear whatever he wants.”
Lindy just laughs. “How are you going to get a little action if Wyatt’s around?”
I swallow and produce one word: “Boundaries.”
But Lindy is still giggling like she hasn’t heard what I’ve said.
Sure, I lost my mind and invited the man here. Sure, I kissed him silly in that lady’s locker room. But Wyatt is my safety net. He’s the only one that will force me to keep my head straight.
“I’ve got it covered.” She winks, leaving with my favorite shirt in hand.
An hour later, we are upstairs, waiting for Wyatt to model his oversized Lucca jersey.
It’s going to look like a dress, but he’s utterly pleased that he gets to wear it the entire day.
He’s tried it on before, but I haven’t let him wear it to school or all day long, reminding him that it’s special, that Lucca signed it for him.
But today is the exception. Even my mother is anxious to show me the peanut butter cookies she made just for Lucca.
“Mom baked?” I look at Lindy the minute Mom leaves the kitchen. Mom hasn’t baked in years.
“Just wait,” she says. “Dad is busting out his collection as we speak.”
My breath hitches. “Which one?”
“I have no idea. He mentioned Diego.” She shrugs.
I cover my mouth. “Diego Maradona,” I whisper, eyes grazing over the flowers on my mother’s kitchen tiles. “He bought a shin guard from someone on eBay who claimed it belonged to him.”
Lindy wrinkles her nose. “Did it?”
“I don’t know! But he thinks it did. He’s got one supposed shin guard from Maradona and a plastic straw he is certain Ronaldo used.”
“That’s the entire collection?” How does she not know this?
“Yes,” I deadpan. “At least, for his soccer collection.” He’s got a dozen more.
“Well, maybe Lucca will bring him a shoelace or a stick of gum from his personal life, and Dad’s collection can grow.” She snickers, hands on her hips.
“That isn’t funny, Lindy. You know how Dad gets.”
“He’s a little crazy,” she says, picking up one of Mom’s bite-sized cookies and popping it into her mouth.
“He is not crazy. He’s just a little eccentric. It’s fine.” I breathe, calming my pounding heart. “I’m not trying to impress anyone. Dad can show him whatever he wants to.”
“Huh,” she grunts. “Well, the rest of us are.”
I exhale a shaky breath. “I noticed.”
“Ta-da!” Wyatt struts into the room, Lucca’s shirt hitting him at the shins. His ankles are on display, and he looks as if he has fully embraced wearing a dress.
“Wow! You look great.” I grin at the number three on the front.
Wyatt puffs out his chest. “Lucca’s gonna love it.”
“Buddy,” I say. “Do you have pants on?”
“The best part about this shirt, Aunt Maggie, is that you don’t even need pants.”
Ah. So, not even shorts, then.
“You might want pants on.” I wrinkle my nose. I’m not trying to rain on his parade.
“Aunt Maggie is right, Wy. You kind of look like you’re in a dress.”
His face pinkens, and his bright blue eyes go wide. “A dress?”
I jolt, smacking my shoulder into Lindy’s.
“Not exactly a dress,” she says.
“No.” I crouch next to him. “Obviously, you’re wearing a real player’s soccer jersey.”
“Obviously,” he says.
“But soccer players usually wear pants.” I shrug as if the choice is his, but those are the facts.
He nods. “That’s true. I’ll go get some.” He hurries from the kitchen, his little feet pattering down the hall. There’s a soft clatter, a grunt, and then— “I’m okay!” he yells before his bedroom door slams shut.
“You can’t say ‘dress’ to him.” I pinch Lindy’s side, but she doesn’t even jump. “He’s a little sensitive about that kind of thing. Ever since Trinity Booker told him his hair was longer than his sisters.”
Lindy huffs. “Well, it got Wyatt to agree to a haircut after bugging him for a month.”
She isn’t wrong. Still, I want Wyatt to be himself, whoever that little wonderful person is. I hate that at six, he’s already influenced by what other people might think.
“It’s fine,” she says, clearly not worried.
She is his mother. Maybe I shouldn’t worry either… yeah right, that’s not happening.
“We both wanted him to put pants on,” she says. “Now it isn’t a fight.”
I sigh. “I guess.”
“Aunt Maggie!” Wyatt bellows. He races back into the room, holding his shirt up like a woman in a ball gown trying to keep her skirts from touching the ground. “Help me tuck it in!”
“Sure.” I brush my hand over his head.
The doorbell rings, but I’m already kneeling in front of Wyatt, ready to tuck an ocean of jersey material into his child-sized jeans.
“I’ll get it,” Lindy says.
“It’ll be Lucca,” I say, anxious over my family and their all-encompassing Lucca love. “Maybe I should—”
“Hurry! Tuck!” Wyatt flaps his arms. “Lucca can’t see me unzipped.”
“Fine. Lindy, get the door. I’ll tuck.” And that’s what I do.
I’m sweating by the time I tuck all that man shirt into those little boy jeans.
Wyatt’s pants are bulging and puffing out as if we stuffed a teddy bear with too much cotton, but that shirt is tucked in, only half of the three in sight.
Thankfully, we get Wyatt zipped before Lucca and Lindy make their way into the kitchen.
His dark hair sweeps back, blending into his dark beard. His broad shoulders might take up two of Lindy’s frame. The man is tall and strong and utterly scrumptious.
“Ta-da!” Wyatt cries again, this time facing Lucca and throwing out his arms. One little hand smacks me right in the face.
Wyatt doesn’t notice, and there’s no sense in making him feel bad. I squint, my right eye stinging with pain, and stand.
I clear my throat. “Yes. Ta-da.”
“Oh, ow—hey,” Lucca says, brow furrowed, silently asking if I’m okay. I nod as if to say, Please move on. Somehow that big giant hunk of a man reads my mind. “Wyatt! It fits.”
“Yeah!” Wyatt thrusts out his hips. “Zipped and all.”