Page 60 of The Girlfriend Game
“But didn’t you tell me that one of your friends said being a dad is the best thing he’s ever done? Don’t you want to experience that type of joy and love one day with your own children?”
Zeke stared at me, bewildered, as if he’d just seen me for the first time, uncertainty flooding his view. Curiously analyzing my intentions as if I might morph from angel to demon before his eyes.
“If you would have gone through what I did with my dad, you’d never want a kid, either.”
I tried my best not to fall into counselor mode, where I’d begin peppering him with questions about his childhood, but my heart needed to know where Zeke landed on his spectrum of willingness.
“Zeke, I know you’ve mentioned a little bit about your childhood, but your father’s mistakes and his inability to be a good parent or husband is not yours to own. Those were his issues and his own failures. They aren’t yours. You are not your father. I know you and you have a good heart,” I acknowledged, tapping my hand over his chest as we walked side-by-side, hand-in-hand out of the restaurant.
While having dinner, Zeke had become noticeably uncomfortable around the children at the table next to us. One of them had a meltdown tantrum that his parents just couldn’t contain, no matter what they tried.
He wrapped an arm around my waist as we walked along the waterfront, the light breeze from the Sound licking our skin, the ferry horn blaring in the background.
“I’m sure you’re right. But I can’t see myself behaving like that father in there.” He hooked a thumb behind us to gesture toward the restaurant. “Being patient and keeping my cool while dealing with a screaming kid. My dad would’ve just backhanded me and told me to shut the fuck up or there’d be hell to pay.”
As if he wedged a knife inside my chest, my heart shattered in a million pieces at his confession. I wanted to wrap the young Zeke up in my arms and tell him he’s okay. It’ll be okay.
“What did your mom do when he behaved so abusively toward you?’
Zeke shrugged. “Nothing. She clammed up because otherwise she would’ve taken a beating too. Anyway, it is what it is. That’s ancient history. I haven’t seen him since I was fifteen when he finally had enough of us and left. And I’ve never been happier.”
The truth is, I know that’s not the case. The repressed feelings of abandonment and anger as a child are likely what’s caused or contributed to Zeke’s mental unwellness and likely, to some extent, causing the frequent anxiety attacks he’s suffered.
The trauma of his past is like a castle made out of sand. He can try to keep piling on the sand to form a structure around his memories and a moat around his heart, but sooner or later, it will come crashing down around him.
Zeke’s low, sexy whistle and his hands on my hips drag me from my memory as he backs me into the wall behind me.
“I’m really digging your outfit choice,” he murmurs, a finger traveling over the lace cup of my strapless bra, flicking over my nipple. “But I’m not sure it meets the casual dress code for the barbeque.” His fingers trail over my arms, followed by hot kisses over my chest, his tongue licking the sensitive flesh at the swell of my breast.
I try pushing him away with a playful shove at his pecs, my body stiff in his arms. I lean up and give him a peck on his cheek.
“Not now, Zeke. We have to get going.”
When he steps back, his arms drop to his sides, and I feel a protective need to cover myself. “Hey, everything all right?” he asks intuitively, his voice gentle with care.
“Yes, of course. I’m fine.” But the words get stuck in my throat, so I scurry away, darting up the stairs, taking them two-by-two, leaving him on the landing down below. When I get to the top, I turn around and call out over the railing.
“Sorry, I just need to figure out what to wear. I’ll be down in a second. Grab yourself something to drink while you wait.”
“Yeah, sure. Take your time,” he says from below, turning down the hallway toward the kitchen. “There’s nothing worse than being the first one at a party. All that small talk is annoyingly uncomfortable.”
My breaths are choppy as I hide inside my walk-in closet, afraid he’ll see everything written all over my face.
Which is ridiculous. As a therapist, I advise my clients to always use their voices. Speak their minds. Reveal their truths. Become comfortable sharing their emotions and feelings with others.
Apparently, I can’t practice what I preach when the shit hits the fan. What a con artist I am to knowingly ignore my own advice for my patients and do exactly the opposite of what I encourage my clients to do.
I finally decide on a green and white polka dot dress, throwing it on over my lingerie and picking out a matching set of heeled sandals. I add in a pair of dangle earrings and some bangle bracelets before heading back downstairs. Zeke’s head pops up from his phone and he stares admiringly at me where he sits on the living room couch.
He lifts his brows and pats the top of his thigh, spreading his legs wide in invitation to join him.
“We don’t want to bethatlate…” I chuckle, but go willingly. I need him right now, holding me tight and assuring me everything will be okay. Even though he isn’t aware of my concerns and I’m not in a place to share them right now.
I sit down on his lap, and he secures an arm around my waist, tugging me into his chest where I nestle myself in. I breathe his essence in deep and relish the moment.
“You look gorgeous, sweetheart,” he softly and lovingly murmurs, nuzzling into the side of my neck. “But then again, you’re always beautiful. My teammates are not going to believe how lucky I got in the girlfriend game.”
My heart flutters wildly from his comment as he burrows his nose in my hair, peppering my head and face with kisses. He slowly drags the spaghetti strap down my arm, tracing the skin with his fingers.
I lean in, wanting to hold on to this moment for as long as I can. Zeke’s a force to be reckoned with and I can’t resist him. I allow myself to get lost in him, taking my own advice to set aside the things I can’t control and letting my worry go so it doesn’t ruin my evening.
“I think I got pretty lucky myself.”
