Page 2 of About That Night

It’s clear she wants to distance herself from it. I’ll chalk that up to the fact she’s a professional at work, and my grandfather is her patient. It was also five years ago, so I get it.

But two years ago, when we made out in New Orleans one night, that was different than the first time. I gave her multiple orgasms, and she gave me a glimpse at how easy it could be to fall for her, given half a chance. That night had been more intentional than our earlier hookup. We’d spent the night talking and laughing and dancing before going to my place. I had assumed we’d run into each other again. We hadn’t because I’d been living in New Orleans, and she was in Baton Rouge.

I’ve thought about texting her, but what the hell would I say? I didn’t want her to think I was fishing for sex or that she owed me anything after our morning was interrupted and she had to take off. The timing was bad then because we lived ninety minutes apart. It doesn’t mean I haven’t thought of her, though. I have, constantly. No woman can compare to her blonde beauty, her shy enthusiasm, her sweet disposition. And her body… It's like a signature dish. It never lets you down, and nothing else ever measures up.

But now we’re both back in our hometown, and here she is, looking even more beautiful than ever and just as tempting. A little something here and there with her is exactly what I need, but she doesn’t seem to be having similar thoughts. Hell, I’m not even being honest with myself. I don’t want something here and there with her. No, we’ve done that.

That doesn’t feel right for me and Chastity.

She’s different. She’s always been different. Something here and there should be something more.

Maybe she has a boyfriend. Hell, a husband, and she doesn’t want to be reminded of her past. That thought is actually irritating because it feels like we have unfinished business, and I don’t mean just sex.

I should have texted her.

She plays with the V neckline of her uniform.

But then again, that was then. This is now. Probably too late to worry about what-ifs or could-have-beens.

“No kidding?” Pops says. He’s studying both of us with a shrewd and knowing stare.

“No kidding,” I say mildly. “How are you feeling, old man?”

“I feel like I might just stay here forever. Chastity is taking excellent care of me. She’s a sweet girl and very hardworking.”

Not quite the same endorsement I would give her, but it says positive things about her character.

“You’re just saying that because you want another popsicle, Mr. Young.” Chastity gives him an indulgent smile. “Don’t worry, I’ll get you one. I promise.”

“Purple.”

“Of course.” Chastity slips past me. “Good to see you, Hank,” she murmurs, but barely glances at me.

It’s bothering me that she’s being relatively cool toward me. It shouldn’t. But it is.

I watch her walk out of the room, then I ask my grandfather, “Hey, is Chastity married? Got a boyfriend?”

“No, definitely not married. I’ve never heard her mention a boyfriend. She only talks about her son.”

That gets my attention. Whatever I thought he was going to say, it isn’t that. “Her son? She has a kid?”

Though it isn’t hard to picture Chastity as a mom. She is naturally nurturing and caring. It complicates things, though. She isn’t going to want to just hook up with me if she’s a single mom. Or maybe she will, because I can be a break from all that responsibility.

No wonder she hasn’t texted me either. She’s been busy raising a baby as a single mom. I have mad respect for that.

It probably means I should rein in the flirting if I run into her again.

“Yes. He drew me this picture.” Pops points to a piece of paper taped to the wall next to his bed.

Moving in closer to his bed, I glance at the drawing. Hold on. That is not the scribbling of a toddler. That is like kindergarten-level shit, with a house and a tree and a fucking sun winking at me…

“Pops, how old is her son?” I ask, a pit forming in my gut.

In New Orleans two years prior, we hadn’t had sex because I didn’t have a condom, and we were both smart enough to be safe about it. But five years ago? There wasn’t a condom in sight.

“Four. She said he’s turning five in December. He’s a cute kid. She’s showed me pictures of him on her phone.”

The latter part of what he says barely registers. “May, June, July…” I start counting, mind in a total panic. I lose track of where I am and have to start over.

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