Page 85 of Book Boyfriends
“I wanted to.”
The earnestness that brightens his features illuminates his truth. Davis wants to take care of me, and I want to take care of him. That fact roars inside me, drowning out all the reasonsthis is a bad idea. I may hurt him. He may hurt me. All those things could happen. All the best stories come with that angst of not knowing how things will turn out, and I want to write a story with Davis.
“Wanna share?” Slipping the to-go box out of the bag, I hold it up. “We can even double-dip our fries.”
“Sure.” His mouth twitches into a big grin.
Before I can start the next chapter in my story with Davis, I need to take care of my book boyfriends. Until then, I can share a meal with my friend. That’s what friends do, after all. Even if I hope, tonight is the last night I call him just a friend.
CHAPTER TWENTY
BUT I NEVER GOT MY CHANCE
Acup of tea in hand and my closed laptop beside me on my couch, the early morning sun breaks through my open window. The minty aroma of the tea fills my nostrils, sparking memories of Davis. The press of his strong shoulder against mine while we sat in the ER waiting room. The way his entire being lit as he told me about a new app his company is developing to assist disabled folks with dating.
“Dating is difficult for anyone, but for people with disabilities, there are unique challenges,” he says, dipping a fry in our shared ketchup in the open food container balanced on my lap.
“Like dates that misconstrue aspects of someone’s neurodivergence as them being rude.” My expression is somehow both cheeky and sheepish.
“Exactly.” His smile is large. “Although that someone may have also been rude.”
Sinking into the memory, I settle against the plush couch cushions. Since last night, my thoughts haven’t drifted far from Davis. For the first time, I’m allowing myself to want this. Not just want him, but to focus onmywants and needs rather than others.
I’m not tossing my book boyfriends aside with no thought of what happens to them. I still have a responsibility to help them, but it doesn’t mean I need to tie myself to someone I don’t love out of obligation.
Step one, talk to them.Forehead scrunched, I cluck my tongue.
Lars and Owen aren’t a concern, but James… I’m not entirely sure how he’ll react to this. He’s insistent that he feels something, so I want to handle this with care. Even if I don’tcarefor him, I don’t want to hurt him. But not wanting to hurt someone isn’t a reason to be with them. I just need to talk to him, but first… pastries.
It's Saturday, i.e., it’s brunch with Hope day. Though this week’s date with my bestie will look a little different.
“Morning!” I almost sing, striding into the house, Wentworth trots behind me, and I carry a tray of fresh fruit and a pastry box in my hands.
“Thank god, you brought food.” Rem exhales, closing the fridge and bending to give Wentworth ear scratches. “I thought I was going to have to cook.”
Placing the food on the kitchen island, I jest, “And your fragile male ego can’t handle your chef wife’s critique.”
“I was scared she’d try to help.” He pulls down some plates.
“I heard that!” Hope bellows from the living room.
It turns out that last night’s false alarm was a combo of thrush, the cause of the discharge that had concerned Hope, Braxton Hicks contractions, and a healthy dose of first pregnancy anxiety. Hope’s not on bed rest, but her OB-GYN prescribed medication for the yeast infection and recommended she slow down a bit and take more breaks to combat the Braxton Hicks. Of course, Rem wants to Bubble Wrap her.
“And will her warden let her have breakfast at the table or should I serve her couch-side,” I tease, opening the food containers.
“I’m not bedridden.” Lips pursed, Hope shuffles into the room. “This is sweet, but you didn’t need to do this.Oooh, you got breakfast bars from Meghan’s Munchies.” She inspects the contents of the pastry box.
“It’s Saturday. We always brunch on Saturdays.”
“Yeah, but aren’t you supposed to go to pickleball?”
With Hope’s false alarm, I’d almost forgotten the pickleball date I agreed to on Wednesday night with Owen and Davis. Thanks to Davis’s, “Do you think you’ll want to learn to play or just watch?” comment last night, I’d remembered our plans. Only, while they play, I’ll spectate between bites of a pecan breakfast bar.
“I’m still going, but thought I’d bring sustenance for you to snack on, since I’m ditching you to go?—”
“Cheer onDavis.” She shimmies her body just a bit.
“I’ll be there to cheer onallthe guys, butespeciallyDavis,” I purr. Pickleball isn’t a panty dropper for me, but the idea of seeing Davis all sweaty in athletic competition sets a tingle pulsing low in my belly.
