Page 102 of Ask Your Mom If I'm Real

Her brows rose. “You did?”

I nodded. “I did. But it was more than just riding a bike.”

“Was it you in the dream?” she asked.

I opened my mouth, then closed it.

Frowning, I said, “You know, I can’t quite remember. Why do you ask that?”

“Because I felt like I was having this out-of-body experience. Like I was reliving something that I’ve experienced in the past, but I can tell you with a hundred percent certainty that I’ve never been on the back of a bike before. So how would I know the kinds of details that I know?”

When she put it like that…

“I was on the bike with a girl,” I said. “At least, I think it was me. But you’re right. I’ve never had a girl on the back of my bike before.” I grinned then. “How would I know how it felt to have a woman’s thighs pressed against me? Or how her breasts would feel pillowed against my back? I can distinctly remember the warmth, and the way that the sweat slicked my back between her body heat and the leather vest that was covering me. Or maybe I was just projecting. The thought of you on the back of my bike does give me the warm and fuzzies.”

“The warm and fuzzies?” She giggled.

I swept a piece of hair behind her ear and said, “You feeling okay? Your cheeks are a little rosy.”

She licked her lips, and my eyes were drawn to them.

“I might or might not have had a bit of a crazy dream,” she said. “I think the heat is from that.”

“What do you mean by ‘crazy’ dream?” I teased.

“Crazy meaning things that I won’t talk about with you because I think it’s supposed to be inappropriate,” she admitted.

I chuckled. “I don’t think that anything we’ve done so far is conventional.”

She frowned, causing me to lift my eyes from her lips to her eyes.

“What?” I asked, feeling the tension in her small body, despite not touching her at all.

She sighed. “I’m trying to decide what my next step should be.”

The thought of her considering her next step worried me.

I wanted her to stay here.

I wanted her to stay in my life.

I wanted her.

“Your next step should be to get through Christmas,” I suggested. “Then, when you’ve done that, we contact a lawyer that’ll help dig you out of the hole that your father put you in.”

She scoffed. “I can’t afford a lawyer.”

“Maybe not,” I agreed. “But I can.”

“I can’t let you—” she started, but I interrupted her.

“I think maybe you should let me tell you a story about my father,” I spoke softly.

She opened her mouth to reply but closed it, nodding once to let me know that I could talk without interruption.

“I’m forty-two,” I started. “All throughout my childhood, I knew that my parents had a very unstable relationship. Mom was a wild girl who loved spending time with people. It didn’t matter who. Boy. Girl. Kids. Adults. She was a people person. And Dad was not. He hated people. He hated anything that had to do with putting himself out there.”

“That’s tough,” she agreed.

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