Page 18 of Pucked Up Plans
Her hand slaps her forehead gently. “I keep forgetting.” She turns to Aubrey and me, then back at her dad. “How do I get them to invite us?” she whisper-shouts.
Thankfully, Aubrey takes the hint. “Mommy, can Lennon stay longer, please? I didn’t even get to show her my room.” She doesn’t quite have the same presence as Lennon, but her request works just the same.
“Sure thing, kiddo. And Walsh brought us special chili for dinner.”
“Ew,” Lennon mutters, coupled with a face of disgust.
However, my kid’s eyes light up. “Like Nana used to make?”
“We’ll have to taste it later. For now, go play.”
She fist pumps her approval, grabs Lennon’s hand, and scrambles down the hall to her room.
Walsh stands there, his gaze traveling back and forth between where the girls disappeared and me.
“Her room’s completely kidproofed if that’s what the concern’s for.”
“No. I trust you.” A huge weight lifts off my shoulders. “Was she just passionate about chili?” An underlying tone of jealousy hides in his comment.
My shoulders raise in a shrug. “She loves chili. It’s one of her favorite foods. And I don’t make it as well as my mother, yet she still eats it.”
“What kind of voodoo did you use to get her to eat it? ’Cause I’m going to need some for Lennon.”
My chuckle echoes around the small room, eliciting another grin from Walsh. Not a replica from earlier, but handsome just the same.
“She’s always been a hearty eater. Sometimes she’s less picky than me.”
Recognition illuminates his face. “Wait. You never texted how she liked the marshmallows. Did she love them? I still can’t believe she’s never had them before.” As if he realizes what he just implied, he quickly amends, “No judgment.”
I wave it off. “It’s weird, I get it.” I deliberate for a few seconds, but I can’t lie to him. Not to his face. “Honestly, she hated it. She barely had it in her mouth before she spit it out.”
His eyebrows shoot upward. “How is that possible?”
“I’m sorry. You bought them for her and everything, but…”
He cuts me off. “I’m not worried about one bag of marshmallows. I’m stuck on the fact she didn’t like it.”
Realizing we’re still standing in the entryway, I suggest, “Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink? Water, apple or orange juice, milk? Coffee or tea?”
“Water would be great, thanks.” He toes out of his shoes, flashes me a smile, and settles on the couch.
Meanwhile, the butterflies return in full force as I head to the kitchen. It’s separated from the living room by a wall. I’m thankful he can’t see me.
It’s not like this is anything other than two parents chatting while their kids play in the other room, but it seems different. More…I don’t know how to describe it. It certainly has to do with the fact he’s a guy. And he’s kinda my age, though I never pinpointed exactly how old he is, so maybe I’m off. But he’s a young dad. Maybe that’s where our similarities end. Although, I’d never willingly choose to hang out with his ex, and she’s definitely around my age. Age isn’t the only thing we have in common.
He’s easy to talk to. In the few brief conversations we’ve had, I’ve let my guard down. Even though I hardly know anything about him besides a few tidbits I’ve gleaned over the two exchanges we’ve had, he’s different from anyone else I’ve been friends with. Different from the two guys I’ve dated.
As if “dated” in middle school counts.
Or, as if “dating” and Walsh belong in the same sentence.
Two bottles of water in my hand, I inhale deeply and exhale slowly, attempting to calm the nerves trying to creep in. Normally, I’m not this skittish around members of the opposite sex. I’ll blame it on being out of practice the past few years. Hard to have a dating life with a little one on top of juggling everything else on my plate.
I have to let this idea of dating go. It won’t happen. Not with Walsh, not with anyone. No time, no babysitters, no desire.
The last one is a lie. It gets lonely sometimes, but the first two reasons put a huge damper on any kind of “life” I want to have, dating or otherwise. Especially here in Vermont where I only know my aunt and the few people I’ve met at Aubrey’s preschool.Aunt Marsha’s been nothing but kind to us—offering us a place to stay and helping get it set up while we get settled, securing Aubrey a spot at the preschool, inviting us to Sunday dinners, which I’ve yet to take her up on. I don’t want to take advantage of her kindness, which includes pawning my kid off on a virtual stranger.
Back in the living room, Walsh is checking something on his phone but puts it down immediately when I appear. One bottle goes to him before I sit on the other end of the sofa.
