Page 85 of Pucked Up Plans
TATE
After starting after we got home from our errands yesterday, it looks like it snowed all night, our first big Vermont storm. People weren’t kidding when they said Vermont gets a lot of snow. And I thought we got a lot in Kansas!
I burst into tears when we come outside to the car lacking any snow.
“Mommy, who did this?” Aubrey wonders as she recognizes our car being the only one free of snow.
“Let’s find out.” I usher her into the car and start it up before dialing Walsh. He answers on the third ring.
“Hey, beautiful.”
“When did you clean off my car?” I ask, barely able to get the words out over the lump of elation and gratitude in my throat.
“My dad and I came on his daily coffee run. I needed you to be safe.”
The organ in my chest grows three sizes. I’m falling fast and hard for him, but I’m too shy to admit my feelings aloud. Or at least in front of Aubrey.
“Thank you. It was really sweet of you, Walsh.”
“You’re welcome.”
After dropping Aubrey to school—driving at a snail’s pace on the light snow-covered roads—I cram half a week’s worth of work into the day.
I do the same on Tuesday. Thank goodness it’s still a full day of school for Aubrey. I put in extra hours after she goes to bed, but it’s worth it to have the rest of the week off.
Around three on Wednesday, with all our stuff packed, we head to Aunt Marsha’s.
Aubrey’s asked no less than a dozen questions about our sleepover tonight, all of which have made me leery of her agreeing to Friday night. I won’t give up hope until she tells me, under no circumstances, is she going to sleep at Aunt Marsha’s without me. A simple “no” won’t do it.
I may be just a tad bit too excited for Friday. At the prospect of having some time to myself, but also at having the time with Walsh.
Time for a “date.”
Time to be adults.
Time to be naked.
The mere thought of seeing him naked again makes me wet.
It also brings an endless cycle of infuriating nerves.
As much as I want to have sex with him, the thought of having sex—with anyone—terrifies me. Scars of my last time are ripped wide open, blood profusely oozing from them. Picturing Walsh helps scab them over until thoughts drift to the actual deed.
Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
Thankfully, I have Aunt Marsha tonight to help keep everything at bay. And tomorrow too.
“Mommy, are you sure the cats won’t come into my room tonight?” This is her latest worry. She’s asked it at least five times today. Hearing the answer repeated multiple times helps lessens the worry.
“Aunt Marsha and I will make sure they don’t.”
The cats are growing on her, as long as she goes to them. If one tries to get near her without her “permission,” she begins to panic. Neither Aunt Marsha nor I make a big deal out of it, which would only make it worse. There’s only the very slim possibility one of the cats would hurt her. It’s this thought helping mitigate any guilt over going out with Walsh on Friday.
Aunt Marsha and I spend the afternoon and evening getting the meals and sides prepped for tomorrow. The best part is making Nannie’s pecan pies. Two, just as Aunt Marsha promised.
I snap a picture of the old, handwritten recipe—Nannie’s shaky penmanship barely legible on the yellowed paper—even though it will be hard to read, and I’ve mostly committed it to memory.
“Aunt Marsha, why haven’t you typed this up or at least written it on another piece of paper?” I ask while the pies bake.
