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The smell of Ford’s body wash, fresh and male, rises off my skin as I shrug into one of his shirts. Plain white, starched to within an inch of its life. Rolling up the sleeves, I notice the right cuff is monogrammed with his initials.
I run my thumb over the careful embroidery. FLM. Ford Langston Montgomery.
I smile at the memory that pops into my head. Ford’s parents got him a monogrammed dopp kit for Christmas junior year. When you’re raised in the south, you know there are several ways you can do a monogram. One of them is putting the initial of your last name in the middle, making the letter larger so it stands out. That’s how the dopp kit was embroidered—FML. Fuck my life.
For months Ford and I laughed every time he’d reach for that dopp kit on his way to the men’s restroom on the second floor of our dorm building. Fuck my life, I have to go shower in that science experiment of a bathroom. Fuck my life, why does my professor suck so much?
Fuck my life exam week is the pits, so come fuck me and make me feel better.
I’m starving, a caffeine headache already starting to kick in. Figure I’ll make us some coffee and breakfast here instead of going out to eat. That way we can maybe squeeze in another round or two before Ford has to pick up Bryce.
I head downstairs, careful not to make any noise as I close the bedroom door behind me. I want Ford to get the sleep he needs.
Before heading to the kitchen, I give myself a little tour of his house. It’s old, with great historic details typical of the South of Broad neighborhood, but impeccably restored.
It’s also pretty big. Understated but no doubt expensive. Just like the guy who owns it. The rooms are large and have high ceilings, but whoever decorated the place made them feel cozy. Homey. Lived in.
It feels a lot like my parents’ house. Maybe because it’s a real family house. Comfortable and pretty but practical, too. Everything is child proofed. Bryce’s toys overflow from baskets in corners. Her artwork is framed above the mantel in the dining room.
My pulse picks up pace when I see a series of picture frames on the bookshelves beside the TV in the family room. I pick one up. In it, Ford is with a pretty brunette woman. She’s holding a newborn wrapped in a swaddle dotted with pink hearts.
I set it back on the shelf, heart twisting. I cannot imagine that kind of heartbreak. Bless him for being open to another relationship at all. For opening himself to the possibility of getting hurt again after losing the woman he loved. The mother of his child.
As if he couldn’t be any more excellent or inspiring.
I want to be with him. That much I know now. I just don’t know how yet.
I can’t stop thinking about what would my life be like if I was with Ford. Maybe being a stepmom isn’t a trap. But what if I’m terrible at it?
What if do like it, but I find balancing motherhood and my career too overwhelming? My career—my passion for cooking and writing—is essential to my happily ever after. That’s something I’m not willing to compromise on.
And I can’t just dip my toe into parenthood; I can’t become a part of Bryce’s life and just ghost if I decide it’s not for me. I mean, I guess I could if things got really bad. But at what cost? I wouldn’t be breaking just Ford’s heart. I’d be breaking Bryce’s, too.
The thought alone kills me. We bonded big time yesterday at the tasting. I can only imagine how much more attached we’ll get when we spend more time together. Which I’d really like to do.
But before that can happen, I have to make my choice. I have to decide whether I’m going all in, or if I’m out. Because I refuse to string this beautiful little family along.
I’m feeling all kinds of things as I move into Ford’s beautifully renovated kitchen. I’ve been cooking in my apartment’s rinky dink galley kitchen. This is a real chef’s space. Professional gas range, multiple ovens, a big island that doubles as an excellent spot for food prep. You could make a meal for twenty in here, no problem.
Then there’s the walk-in pantry. It’s well stocked—again, family house—so I’m able to whip up migas with a side of peaches and cream French toast. Something savory, something sweet. Because who knows which one Ford will want? After the athletic evening we shared, I imagine he’ll wake up just as ravenous as I am right now. And I want him to have exactly what he wants.
I feel better—more certain—as I cook. I like cooking for people. But I haven’t cooked for my people in forever.
