In the kitchen, he’s already taking out a frying pan. “What are you doing?”
“It’s a surprise. Go take a shower. If you can take your time, that might help.”
I shake my head and walk to my bedroom, undressing and stepping into the shower. I don’t take as long as I should, and when I walk out of the bathroom, my mouth waters as I follow the smell.
He flips something in a pan and stirs a pot. “What are you making?” I ask. He keeps his lips pressed together, playfully silent. “OK, I’ll wait. I got you something also.” I take the banana bread cinnamon roll from my bag. “Although it might not be as good as whatever it is you’re making”—I hold out the white box—“it’s very good.”
“We’ll see about that.” He pulls a plate out. “I don’t want you to watch, so turn around and look somewhere else.”
I do what I’m told, and when I hear the plate hit the table, I look over my shoulder. “Is it time?”
“Yeah.” I turn around, and my mouth hangs open. “I called Charlie at Mustang Creek Ranch, and he got his great-grandmother to give me a foolproof recipe.”
“You made me . . .” I put my hand to my mouth, not sure I’ll be able to hold back a sob, “chicken-fried steak with sausage gravy.”
“I tried.” He studies the plate with a frown. “I’m going to need you to tell me if it’s good or not.”
“I’m going to go out on a limb and say that it looks like the most delicious thing ever.” I walk slowly to the table, slide into the chair, and pick up the knife and fork. “Even better than the cheeseburger.” I take a bite of the food, and I close my eyes. “Holy shit.”
“Bad?” he asks. I just shake my head. He laughs as he pulls out a chair. “So, did you sleep last night, or, I guess, this morning?”
“What time did you go to bed?” I counter.
“About nine-thirty.”
I calculate in my head. “That’s not even five hours.” I cut a piece and offer it to him. He takes it off my fork and pops it in his mouth. “Not bad for my first try.”
“Not bad at fucking all.”
“So,” he starts, and I look at him, “I know you mentioned you had next weekend off.”
“Yeah.” My whole body is suddenly on guard.
“I’m going to go and visit my folks.”
I try not to let my disappointment show. It’s going to be hard not to come home to him. But I’m being silly, it’s not like we’re together really. “That sounds like fun.”
“I want you to come with me.” The minute he says the words, the fork falls from my hand.
“I’m sorry, what?” I’m not sure I heard him, but I’m pretty sure I heard him.
“I want you to come with me and meet my parents. I also want to tell them about you and the baby.”
“Theo, I’m not . . .” I try to think of words that will sugarcoat what I really want to say. There are none. “I’m not the girl you bring home to your parents.” The food I just ate feels like it’s going to come back up. “I—” He holds his hand up to stop me from talking.
“Collins, don’t fucking say that again,” he says firmly. “I want you to come with me, and I want to tell my parents we are having a baby together.”
“I don’t do well with parents. It’s not about you, it’s that . . . it’s because my parents are . . .” I close my eyes. “I don’t want to tell you about my parents.” The tears come, even though I don’t want them. He gently brushes them away. “But I know, eventually, you’re going to find out about them and?—”
“Stop, or else I might do something that is going to get me in a lot of trouble.”
“What?” I look up at him.
“There are things about me you don’t know either,” he confesses, “and I want us to be open and honest with each other.” His thumb rubs my cheek. “So, how about we table all of this for next weekend, and we get to know each other?” I swallow. I don’t know why, but I nod. “So you’ll come and meet my parents?”
“Under one condition.” He waits. “That you stop coming over here at 3:00 a.m.” His hand falls. “It’s not that I don’t like you coming here. Trust me, I like it. I like it more than I should. It’s that you need sleep.”
“Don’t make me agree to that.” His voice is barely a whisper. “It’s the only time I can see you.” The way he says his words, I can feel them in my soul. “Don’t take that away from me.”
