24. Court
24
COURT
T he day feels short. We fill up Lucy’s four bags and go back to buy two more.
She gets more starter culture for her goat cheese and two types of seasonings to expand her offerings.
We find a hand-painted milking stool that makes her smile, so I buy that, too.
By the time we get back to the SUV, everyone is tired, even the goat.
The sky is darkening as we head toward the highway.
“I know we just ate our way through all those booths, but I could use a milkshake,” Lucy says.
“Your wish is my command,” I say, punching the restaurant button on the map app built into the SUV. “There’s a Checkers ahead.”
“What’s Checkers?” She rests her head on the back of her seat.
“Fast food burgers and shakes.”
“Sounds perfect. Fast-food places have the best shakes.”
“Not worried about chemicals?”
“Some days you need a little artificial flavor.”
I swing into the drive through. “Chocolate? Vanilla? Strawberry?”
“Yes,” she says.
I chuckle and order all three. “Fries with that?”
“Yes.”
“Cheeseburger?”
She laughs. “Nice try.”
We pull up to the delivery window to wait. The sky is bright with colors. “Is it hard to see the sunset in Manhattan with all the tall buildings?” she asks.
“Not if you’re high enough.”
“I see. So, if you’re able to get to the top of a building, then you get to see sunset.” She yawns.
“That’s right.” I pass her the first shake and set the other two in the center console, then balance the packet of fries between them.
I half-expect the goat to protest she’s not getting anything, but when I check my rear-view mirror, she’s lying down in the hay we spread. Both girls are settled.
The highway is quiet as we drive back. It’s peaceful and easy, Lucy munching french fries beside me, sipping from each of the three shakes as she goes.
“You have to try the strawberry,” she says, holding the straw close to my mouth.
I snatch it between my lips. The shake is icy cold and sweet, not artificial tasting at all. “It’s good.”
“It is.”
She turns on the radio, and I expect to hear country or folk come out, but she settles on a top hits station. “They better play some Taylor, or I’ll call in until they do.” She settles down in her seat, resting the cup on her belly.
“What’s your favorite Taylor song?”
“Oh, that’s hard.” She takes a sip as she thinks. “ Shake It Off is my mantra, and I sing that one a lot. But probably not my favorite.”
I wonder what she’s needed to shake off, other than her parents. That man from college? People who make fun of her lifestyle?
Did she have to shake me off after our first argument in my office?
But I say nothing, just let her think about it.
She eventually says, “I think it changes as I change.”
“You’ve had a lot of favorites, then?”
“Sure. I’m younger than her, but she’s been a force as long as I’ve been old enough to know what songs can do.”
“What was the first one that mattered?”
“Oh, You Belong to Me for sure.”
“You were a romantic. What were you, thirteen?”
“Twelve. Big year for figuring out your romance aesthetic.”
“I was sixteen when that song hit.”
“You remember your life when Taylor Swift songs came out?” She’s amused.
I remember the song because of the girl I was dating at the time, but I decide not to say that. “I got my driver’s license that year, and it played a lot on the radio.”
“You were driving a car, and I was driving my parents nuts with my dietary demands. I spent summers with BeeBee. Grandpa had died the year before, and she liked the company.”
“Did you have a lot of cousins competing for her?”
“No, my dad is an only child. My brother and I were the only grandchildren.”
“Your brother didn’t have the same attachment?”
“No. Jasper was a video game playing thrill seeker. Spending hours weeding radishes wasn’t his idea of a good time. He hated Taylor Swift.”
I can picture her, young, kneeling in a garden next to the older version of her, carefully tending plants.
“But you never outgrew her music.”
She switches out her milkshakes. “Nope. When 1989 came out, my top song switched to Wildest Dreams . That might still be my favorite.”
“You like romantic yearning.”
She smiles around her straw. “That’s Taylor Swift in a nutshell.”
Lucy doesn’t strike me as a dreamer. She’s so practical with her knapsack and bare essentials.
“Do you do art yourself?” I ask. “Paint? Write? Sing? Dance?”
“Not really. BeeBee always felt art was in nature. A new seedling unfurling from the ground. The perfect curl of a yellow squash.”
“I like that.”
Headlights flash around us. We’re approaching the island again. The car is so cozy, and the conversation so easy, I’m tempted to find a circuitous route so we can stay on the highway longer. It won’t be the same once we’re dodging taxis and waiting on pedestrians in the city.
Lucy settles against the headrest. She must be exhausted. Everything I’ve understood about pregnancy is how tiring it can be. It must take a lot of energy, growing a human.
Will it be mine? She keeps insisting it’s true. And the more I get to know her, the more it seems like she wouldn’t come all this way if it weren’t.
In the end, the route doesn’t matter. She’s asleep by the time we get back to the building. I sit in the parked car, wondering if there’s an easier way to get the goat up to the apartment.
I touch her shoulder. “We’re here.”
She startles awake. “Oh, time to be stealthy.”
But we encounter no one in the halls or the stairs, and this time, there are no wild dashes. Lucy leads Matilda into the elevator while I carry the bags. The goat is more docile when she’s tired.
When we make it inside my apartment, I tell her I’ll fetch the bales of hay.
“Just get the one,” she says. “We might be gone before we even get to the second one.”
Right. Devin is supposedly booking her a farm again.
When I return a second time with the hay, the goat is asleep under the mist. I take the bale out and spread part of it around in case she wants to use it as bedding.
I slow down as I pass the guest room. The door is open, and I half-expect to see Lucy asleep already. But the shower is running in the adjoining bathroom.
I head to the kitchen and find she’s already put away the jams and fudge and other items we’ve bought. The recycled bags are folded and placed on a shelf in the pantry.
My footsteps are slow as I pass her room again. She’s still showering.
Not a bad idea. The sun and dust and general wandering outdoors have made me feel gritty.
I take a quick shower and change into cotton shorts and a T-shirt. When I return to the kitchen, Lucy is there, pouring a glass of milk.
Her hair is damp and wavy, making the pink T-shirt we bought this morning dark on her shoulders. She likes sleeping in her yoga shorts, and the shiny black material molds to her thighs.
“You feeling okay?” I ask as I fill a glass from the fridge dispenser.
“Much better now that I’m clean.” She sets down her glass. “Oh, I got you something!”
“You did?”
She enters the pantry and returns with a small box. “I hid it in there.”
“You were sneaky.”
“It’s just a little something.”
I open the lid. Inside is an enamel keychain. I lift it out. It says, “Best goat dad.”
“You’ve been so terrific with Matilda. You made a home for her! And you sneaked her into your apartment in spite of the risk. You let her come with us to the expo.” She presses her lips together, and I can see she’s trying to hold back her emotion. “You were made to be a dad. You’re going to be great at it.”
I know I should simply thank her for the gift and move on.
But I don’t do that. I reach for her, tucking a strand of wet hair behind her ear.
When she looks up at me with those misty eyes, emotional, raw, I feel it all mirrored inside me. And I know I’m going to kiss her. I know we’re going to do more.
It feels inevitable.
And right.