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“Oh, yeah,” I say, not moving from my truck. “How are you?”
“I’m good, I’m good. I was just calling to let you know I had a lot of fun the other night.” She mentions last Saturday when I went out with a couple of rookies to have dinner, and we were next to a group of girls. We started talking and exchanged numbers.
“Yeah, it really was.”
“We should, I don’t know, do it again?” Her voice is hopeful. “Maybe just meet up and go have a coffee.”
“Yes,” I agree right away, “that sounds good. Are you free next Wednesday?”
“Yes,” she replies cheerfully, “I am.”
“Great, how about we touch base on Tuesday?”
“That sounds amazing. Thank you.” She lingers for a couple of minutes.
“See you then,” I finally say, hanging up the phone and then looking at it again. My head suddenly replays the night over and over again.
Instead of going into the house, I open my text messages and scroll down until I see her name.
Me: Did you get home?
I don’t know if she will answer me or not, but I’m shocked when a message comes in right away.
Koda: You literally followed me.
I laugh and turn the truck back on before backing out and making my way over to her house. I get out of my truck and jog up her steps, ringing the doorbell. It takes her a minute before she opens the door. She’s out of the clothes she wore before and is now in a baby-blue lounge set. “Hey,” I say, holding up my hand.
“Hey,” she replies. “Sorry, I was naked and had to get dressed.”
“Funny.” I point at her. “I was in the neighborhood.”
“You live in the neighborhood.” She crosses her arms over her chest.
I laugh. “Okay, fine, I knew it would be weird not having the kids here, so I figured you would like company.”
“But how am I supposed to dance and sing naked if you’re here?” She moves to let me in, closing the door behind me.
“I guess you’ll have to maybe bake cookies or something,” I tease her as we walk back to the family room. “You got a new couch.” I take in the new couch and see she’s poured herself a glass of red wine that sits on the coffee table. The big-screen television is paused on a movie.
“I did,” she confirms, “it’s way comfier than the last one.” She walks into the room and sits down right in front of the wine. “Plus, I didn’t find my dead husband on it.”
“Damn.” I sit beside her. “How many glasses of wine have you had?”
She laughs. “My therapist says I shouldn’t hide the fact why I changed it.”
“I mean, my therapist gives me the same advice,” I share, and she gasps.
“You see a therapist?” She grabs the glass of wine and takes a sip.
“No, not really. I talk to my uncle Viktor,” I admit. “He is a recovering addict.”
“Oh, yes,” she says, remembering him. “Is it helping?”
I shrug, not wanting to talk about it and ruin the night. “What are you watching?”
“Hope Floats,” she replies, and I just stare at her. “It’s Sandra Bullock.”
“She was great in Speed,” I counter.
