Page 217 of Love in Riverbend
Tiny dimples appear in his cheeks as his smile grows. “I drink my coffee black, and I’ve been told I snore.”
“I don’t snore,” I say. “And coffee with cream, not milk. Vanilla-flavored is even better.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere.” He eyes the partially filled glass in front of me. “And you drink beer, good wine, but prefer ice cream. Flavor?”
“Caramel is the best, but few places make it well. My grandma made homemade caramel ice cream. We used to hand-spin it in an old bucket. There was ice and salt around the silver center.”
Ricky’s stare intensifies, his brown orbs sparkling.
“What?” I ask.
“That…what you were just saying. You really meant it. I could see and hear how happy those memories made you.”
Nodding, I look down and back up, meeting his gaze. “Do you have memories that make you happy?”
“Yeah.” He lifts his chin and purses his lips. “I have no complaints about anything from my childhood. I think everyone is supposed to have some trauma that shapes them or some shit. If I did, I blocked it out.” His eyes open wide. “Devan. Yeah, she’s my trauma.”
“Devan was your trauma?” I ask, holding back a laugh.
“Now, hear me out. Imagine you’re a ten-year-old kid. Life is going great. You have all your parents’ attention, baseball, football, friends, woods to explore, fields to wander…”
“Living the dream.”
“Exactly,” Ricky replies. “And then, out of nowhere, this tiny pink, crying, diaper-soiling troll comes into your home, and your world is never the same.”
“I can’t wait to tell Devan that description.”
“No,” he says quickly. “This is secret boyfriend-girlfriend stuff. You can’t tell anyone else.”
“Oh, those are the rules?” I’m not sure if it’s the beer or the company, but my dread leading up to this evening has disappeared.
“You have siblings. How much older are you than your sister?”
“Eight years, but Marcus came first. I don’t really remember life without all of us around.”
“You are definitely Marcus’s trauma.”
I shake my head.
Ricky leans closer, the warmth of his arm radiating to mine. “You’re telling me you had no life-changing trauma?”
My lips come together. “Not in my childhood.” I lift my eyebrows, ready to accuse Ricky of being my life-changing trauma. It wasn’t the sex. I’d been a willing participant. It was the aftermath.
He stares for a moment before saying, “Maybe we should change the subject.”
“Probably a good idea.”
Could he read my thoughts?
Ricky’s phone vibrates. After he looks at the screen, his smile returns. “Saved by the buzzer. Our table is ready.” He lifts his hand, signaling to the bartender.
As I reach for my purse, Ricky shakes his head. “I asked you to meet tonight to work on our plan. Tonight is on me.”
“I can pay for myself.”
“I’m sure you can.” He lowers his chin and widens his brown eyes. “Please, Marilyn. You’re doing me a favor.”
Against my better judgment, I acquiesce.
