Page 53 of Born in the Spring

A man with a kid.

He’s already had his baby. A boy who gives me his Cute Eyes, relieving me from thinking too much, because if I do. . .

“Please, please,” he urges me now.

“That second one’s for me,” Tripp comments, with anticipation in the words, but I’m appeasing his son’s.

“Yes,” I say. My stomach jumps and drops with my answer, but Skylar’s cheering puts a smile on my face.

Who am I to argue with a determined five-year-old? And my favorite one at that.

My smile wavers at the corners as my gaze connects with Tripp’s, his grin as big as his son’s as Skylar slams himself into me, his tiny arms wrapping me up as he declares, “We’ll pickyou up at seven!”

I squeeze his arms, my nod stiff in my neck as I repeat low, “Seven.”

Twenty-One

Elara

My first official date with Shepherd was adance around the room while getting readysort of moment. The night ahead held promise and excitement and comfort for the future.

My Just Dinner with Tripp is staring blankly into my closet after a shower until it’s thirty minutes to seven, then racing around the lodge trying to throw myself together.

And a broken earring.

The pearl snaps off into my hand as I’m fastening the jewelry to my ear, the back falling somewhere to the floor. I stare down at the shiny ball as it rolls in my palm with a sting in my eyes. The pearls are fake, but they’re still beautiful, and they were a gift from my mom.

I called her a couple hours ago, to let her voice settle the spinning in my head.

Now the giftshegave me is broken and blurred, and I curl my fingers around the pearl in a squeeze as I manage to not throw it across the room.

With some breaths and clearing blinks, I drop the pearl on top of the television stand, then meet my sad eyes in the wall mirror as I take out the other one and drop it there too.

I don’t even need earrings. My hair covers my ears anyway. I let the strands mostly air dry to keep their natural wave, then blow dried the remaining dampness.

I’ve settled on a tan colored v-neck collared button down, the front tucked into my brown leggings, and an old pair of ankle boots. My lips are a light peach stain and my lashes have one sweep of mascara.

This is me not trying too hard, but still trying.

I’m trying.

I’m pulling half my hair back again, my makeshift hand tie tightening around the strands, and fingering a single piece on each side to frame my face, when my door opens.

Vanessa stomps in as I release my hair, and a sigh, her stare accusatory before she even opens her mouth.

“Unlike you, Little Skylar had a lot to tell me when I saw him as he was leaving,” she answers to my questioning stare, and I scoff over her disappointed mocking, while trying not to feel that way myself about Skylar opening his mouth, to her, of all people, with how obtrusive she’s been lately. He’s just a kid.

And she, one of my closest friends, who should be complimenting my outfit or my choice of Just Dinner companion is giving me some mama bear pity with her stern jaw and furrowed brows that turn me back to my pearls.

“And his newly single daddy’s been asking about me,” I say back, emphasizing her other words from my first night back here as I scoop up my earrings, then emphasize more, “You should behappyI’m trying to be happy again.”

“I wascomplainingthen, not encouraging you,” she goes on as I transfer the earrings to the small empty bowl on the coffee table.

“It’s just dinner,” I drone with the clang of the jewelry.

“This isn’t just dinner,” Vanessa argues, stilling me here now as she pricks my back with each new word. “This is you choosing another Davis instead of listening to your heart.”

“Tripp isn’t Davis,” I manage as the whole table blurs.

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