Page 78 of Messy Strokes (Wrecked Roommates)

I’ll tell him later.

“Come on.” Milo releases me. “Let’s get this over with. Penny will need another feeding soon.”

Confused, I tell him, “I can nurse her inside––”

“No.”

“You don’t like me nursing in public?” I ask, hovering between annoyed and amused.

“Penny’s the one who doesn’t like nursing in public,” he grunts. “And you’ll have to forgive me if I don’t want your perfect tits on display for the rest of the restaurant.”

“Perfect tits?” I balk. “Pretty sure they’re more like deflated balloons.”

He shakes his head. “Pretty sure I’ve looked, remember?”

“Pretty sure the shower didn’t count. My boobs were still engorged and stuff, so they looked perkier than normal.”

“Who says I was talking about the shower?” he challenges, his eyes shining with mirth.

“You’ve looked other than the shower?” The laugh bubbling out of me feels good. Great, actually. Foreign and misplaced, definitely. But great. “When?”

With a smirk, he opens the driver’s side door and unlatches Penny’s car seat from the back while I try to keep myself from grinning like a loon.

When the back door closes, he taps his knuckles against my window. “Chop, chop.”

20

Maddie

There are cream and gold couches along the walls in the waiting area, but every single one is taken as I scan the open restaurant for my parents. The place is packed, which makes sense since my mouth started watering as soon as the scents of garlic and parmesan hit me when I stepped through the front door. If only my stomach weren’t in knots, I might’ve been able to enjoy a solid meal tonight.

“Madelyn,” a familiar voice calls.

I turn to find my dad waving at me from a small square table behind the hostess stand. The awkward hand movement must be genetic because Dove does the same thing anytime she’s feeling uncomfortable. I’d laugh if the feeling wasn’t mutual. I, too, am uncomfortable as hell.

“Here we go,” I mutter under my breath, touching Milo’s forearm to get his attention. “They’re over here.”

After weaving between a few groups of people, we reach my parents’ brown lacquered table and take a seat side by side.

When I finally found the courage to call them, we didn’t talk much. We barely said hi. I figured it would give us plenty to catch up on tonight, but right now, I feel like I’m looking at a pair of strangers, and I have no clue what to say or how to dissipate the awkwardness settling over our table like a heavy blanket.

“Madelyn? Would you, uh…?” my mother’s voice trails off as her gaze darts to Milo.

Remembering my manners, albeit grudgingly, I clear my throat and motion from one person to the next as I make the proper introductions. “Milo, this is Rosie and Peter Walker. Mom, Dad”––the sentiments taste foreign on my tongue as I force them out––“this is Milo.”

“And who’s this?” my mother asks, her attention dropping to the covered car seat Milo had tucked beneath the table seconds ago.

Milo pulls it out a few inches and carefully lifts the edge of Penny’s giraffe blankie to give my mom a better view.

“This is Penny,” he murmurs.

“She’s sleeping,” I add. “But if you want me to get her out…”

“It’s fine, Madelyn,” my dad replies, his voice surprisingly warm. “Let her rest while we catch up.”

“Yes,” my mom agrees. She touches her pearl necklace. “If she’s anything like her mother, she’ll be fussy soon enough.”

“Rosie,” my dad warns.

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