Page 27 of Kicking Up Dust

The day he comes to get me, I can’t stop throwing up. I thought the second trimester was supposed to be the breeziest, but the way my stomach is churning has me thinking otherwise. I hear him knock on the door and Stephanie’s voice as she greets him, vague Charlie Brown-esque mumbling about me being sick.

Colt’s knocking on the door a second later. I pick myself up off the tile floor with a huff, flushing the toilet.

“Just a minute,” I grumble, twisting the lock on the knob and pulling the door open for him while I turn the sink on so I can brush my teeth. Again.

I don’t even let myself look at him. I feel so gross today—from throwing up, from how tight my shirt is, from the prospect of spending the next several hours in his truck as we ride back to Montana.

His fingers push my hair back behind my ear and despite my attempts, his eyes find mine in the mirror as I brush my teeth. He’s got his hat on backwards, which somehow makes him even hotter.

“I’m sorry you’re not feeling well, mama,” he says quietly, brows furrowed with concern. “We’ll take it easy today. I’ll load everything up and we’ll just get a couple hours under our belt before we stop for lunch.”

I nod, spitting and rinsing off my toothbrush before stowing it in the Ziploc baggie again.

“Sorry, just nerves, I think.”

“Nothing to be nervous about, pretty girl. I’m so fucking excited, I can barely breathe.” He turns to me, pulling me into his tattooed arms. I’m struck again by how safe his embrace makes me feel, how wonderful his chest feels to rest against. His fingers card through my hair and I almost contemplate asking him if he wants to go to bed—just to nap together—but the reminder of the long drive and everything else that’s gonna come with it tonight jolts me back into my nerves.

“I saw a couple suitcases in the living room. Is that everything?”

“Yeah, I don’t have a lot of stuff.”

Colt looks like he wants to say something, but stops himself, tucking his lips into a small smile instead.

“I’ll load it up in the truck if you wanna say your goodbyes to your friend.”

When he turns his back to me, I finally get to see what his hat says this time.

Girl Dad.

Colt rattles incessantly, worrying over everything from the air conditioner to the songs playing on the radio. He reminds me, again, that we’ll be staying at his mom’s house until guest season is over in September and then we’ll get to pick out which cabin we’d like to use. He swears he’ll try to make sure his mom and sisters don’t drive me insane.

I tell him they’re not going to bother me, but I don’t think he believes me. I’ve lived in so many homes, I’ve lost count. I’ve had decent housemates and terrible ones and everything in between. There’s no way his family could be any worse than the people I’ve lived among in the past.

“Are you craving anything specific? I figure we’ll stop for lunch around noon, but there’s a nice rest stop up here in Wyoming we can stretch our legs and pick up some snacks at,” he says, adjusting the vents for the air conditioner again. He puts his hand in front of them and follows the flow to my arm to make sure it’s hitting me.

I grin at his antics.

“The temperature’s fine, cowboy,” I promise him. “And we literally just got in the truck an hour or so ago, so we don’t need to stop just for me.”

“Nah,” he says, hands on the wheel again. “It won’t just be for you. I’m sure I’ll have to piss. Shit, sorry, I mean pee.”

I roll my eyes. “Just because I told you I don’t swear doesn’t mean you can’t.”

“Just trying to be respectful, mama. Anyway, cravings?”

“Gummy bears, mostly,” I tell him, slipping down further in the seat. The damn seatbelt is so uncomfortable. Colt’s eyes dart over to me, but he seems content when he realizes I’m just getting comfy. “Ooh, and macaroni and cheese. Like, the cheap blue-box kind.”

Colt laughs. “I know just the place to stop for lunch.”

Chili’s.

We stop at Chili’s for lunch.

And after we both order a steak with cheese fries, he orders a kids’ macaroni meal too.

“It’s just the blue-box kind that I’ve been craving,” I speak up, ready to tell my waitress not to bother.

“That’s what the kids’ macaroni is,” she says instead, excusing herself while Colt grins like he’s presented me with a dowry.