Page 41 of For Cowgirls and Kings
“Why are you here?” she asks, her tone dry.
“I brought pizza.” I wave the box in front of her, and her eyebrows rise in question. “Wait, why’re you outside?” I look back over my shoulder for any out of place vehicles once more, before facing her again.
“Tut was meowing at the door. He’s been doing that a lot lately, so I came out to see if there was something out here.”
The memory of Tut meowing at me through the glass flashes through my mind, and my smile wobbles. “Uh, want to eat this while it’s still hot?”
“Who says I haven’t already eaten?” She cocks her hip, and I bite my cheek.
“Have you?”
She rolls her eyes. “Not yet. But what if I don’t invite you inside?”
I step forward, invading her space, the box the only thing between us. “Then my ego would be mortally wounded and I’d never recover. Take pity on me. I hate pineapple on pizza and this thing is covered in it.”
She shakes her head, the sass deflating from her body, and I don’t bother fighting off my grin.
“Should have brought whiskey too,” she states, turning back to the front door.
“I was sure you’d have some.”
She huffs, but doesn’t disagree.
“How’s your parents?” I lean back into the couch cushions, their fuzzy exteriors all but swallowing me. I should feel ridiculous, surrounded by velvet purple, but it’s so Dale and I’m quickly realizing just how badly I want to be surrounded byanythingDale.
She pauses mid bite, setting the piece down to look at me thoughtfully. “They’re okay.” Her words are hesitant, and I lean back further, a motion I hope shows her I’m not running off regardless of what she says.
Her family was always good people, but I know she never fit in with them. Much like me, she was the outsider in her own family. And because of that, her mother was hard on her—that much was evident in the drastic flip that occurred in both Dale’s exterior appearance, and how she thought and spoke as she grew up. She’d spent her entire life suppressed, and when her mom and sister left for her grandparents the day after graduation, Dale was never the same.
Which is fine by me. I like this version of her better anyways—even if I didn’t act right about it all those years ago.
“My mama’s still bitter as ever that I won’t come there, but I know she’ll shackle me to the floor if I do. And my sister and papa are good, living their own lives.” She straightens slightly, tracing a small circle on her knee absently. “It’s weird that I haven’t seen them in ten years, and while I miss them, I can’t picture my life any differently.”
“Your mom was tough,” I offer, hoping I’m not overstepping any bounds.
“She loves me in her own way,” she defends, but there’s noheat to her words, like she hardly believes them herself. A fact that breaks my heart. Dale’s the kind of person who deserves unconditional love, from everyone she meets, much less her own parents. How can her mother not see the amazing woman she's become?
My mother, although terribly absent in my life, was always my ray of sunshine, so full of love for me and Valentina I was afraid she’d burst from it sometimes. She never once told us how to live or who to be, even in scenarios where parental advice would have been welcomed. It didn’t suit her free spirit lifestyle.
I shoot her a small smile, and she sags. “I know, how could she not? But you know that everything she projected onto you is her own insecurities, not your shortcomings. You were the best kid alive, of that I have no doubt, and became a woman any parent would be proud of. If she doesn’t say as much, it’s because she was probably never taught the words. Doesn’t make it right, but?—”
She leans back on her palms, the action pausing me mid sentence, her hair wrapping around her waist in its usual braid. “Pretty wise there, but you brought the pizza. Shouldn’t I be paying you somehow? Not the other way around? I’m a teacher, I can’t afford pizzaand therapy.”
It’s a deflection—Dale’s never been one to talk about her feelings, but as the words hang between us, a hundred different ways she could“pay me”filter through my mind, each one dirtier than the last.
I readjust my hips, looking for release where my straining zipper’s concerned at this point, only to meet dark eyes burning into my own, halting my movements.
“What’re you really doing here, Mateo?” Her words cut me to the core, exposing the flame of desire that seems to blaze brighter each time I’m aroundher.
“Uh, pizza?” But my voice is gravely, full of my poorly hidden intention, and her eyes narrow.
“But you haven’t eaten any.” Her eyes flick down, confirming that I haven’t touched a slice.
“I don’t like pineapple on my pizza.”
“Have you tried it?” She sits up, her eyes full of challenge.
No.“Yes.”
