Page 94 of Between Now and Forever
The question hangs in the air, pregnant with insinuations.
A week or two is usually the maximum amount of time I spend with a woman. That’s how long it takes for the superficial layer of our interaction to cease. Beyond that framework comes an actual relationship with actual conversations, digging through childhood stories, and the confluence of our lives that makes me uneasy.
I don’t go into situations with a countdown flashing over a woman’s head. My extraction from our interactions is organic—a knee-jerkreaction that’s rooted in my need to remain unattached. Being single has served me well. Relationships have not.
The engine roars as I turn onto Bittersweet Court.
“I’m taking that as a no,” Lark says.
I blow out a breath, wrestling with how to summarize and phrase my thoughts.
“Lark, it’s ...”Different with Gabrielle. It doesn’t feel like a relationship. I’ve slept like a baby all week and not paced the floor.“I can’t explain it.”
He hums.
“Maybe it’s because we were sort of friends before things between us changed,” I say. “Or, you know, her kids aren’t babies. They’re older. They had a dad and I’m not filling that role. There’s no pressure. I’m an ancillary part of their lives.”
I’m an ancillary part of their lives by design ... and I hate it.
Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would be upset about not being a part of a woman’s life with her children. It would be so much easier if I did loathe Carter needing to borrow my pumper and found Dylan’s jerk-face attitude annoying. Why do I have to enjoy helping Gabrielle around her house, and why can I see myself sitting at their table for dinner so easily?
“I just want to point out that you’re saying one thing but telling me the opposite,” Lark says.
Scottie waves from her flower bed. I nod her way in return.
“That doesn’t even make sense,” I say.
“Yeah, it does. You’re saying that you’re comfortable with Gabrielle because you don’t really matter in their lives. But the tone of your voice tells me that you aren’t comfortable being an outsider.”
Sometimes, I hate him.“I gotta go. I’m almost home.”
“Okay. There’s a car show this weekend in Logan if you wanna go. I think they opened the track again, so they’ll be racing, I bet.”
“I’ll let you know,” I say, slowing as I pass Gabrielle’s house. “I’m pulling in my driveway. Gotta go.”
“Later.”
“Bye.”
Gabrielle’s car is in the driveway, and lights are on inside the house. The sun is on the horizon, giving off enough light for Carter to still be bouncing his ball on the sidewalk or back deck. I don’t see him.
I park outside and make my way inside as quickly as possible.
Coming home used to feel like walking into a trap. The day was over. All natural distractions were elsewhere, and the silence was deafening. Home was both my refuge and my prison. But lately, it’s held more ... hope.
I toss my keys on the table by the door and slip off my boots and socks.
Instead of lamenting the past as I make myself a glass of tea, my brain skips to the future. It’s a relief to have a reason to look forward. But it’s also a little nerve-racking too.
How will Dylan and Carter take it when they learn their mom is seeing me? Will they welcome me in? Or will they feel like I’m intruding?
“Hell, how am I going to deal with it?” I ask the empty room.
I take a sip of my tea and ponder the question. It’s one I’ve pondered many times lately. Each time I think about it, though, the idea of being introduced to Gabrielle’s children as more than a friend isn’t quite so heavy. Maybe it’s because what I told Lark is right—they’re older. It’s much different from Izzy.
Izzy.
Her laughter echoes through my brain, bringing a smile to my face.
