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I confirm that we’re meeting at my house, then going to the lake to take photos. I plan on teaching her about “ranch stuff,” as she put it, on the drive.
Callie:
Coffee? I’m at a place around the corner from your house
I grunt and text her my order. The owner of that shop knows me well, even though I generally make my coffee at home. I wonder if she’ll introduce herself as my future wife. My heart kicks up a notch thinking about it.
Me:
Black, please
Callie:
Boring. Can’t I get you a fancy drink? Dirty matcha latte?
God only knows what that is or if she’s messing with me.
Me:
Nope. Just black.
I half expect her to keep texting me other suggestive options, and I’m a little disappointed when she doesn’t. She could very well show up at my house with a vanilla mocha latte with some crazy nut milk combo. When I pop off the lid, however, I find black coffee, as requested.
Waving her inside, I walk her through the living room to the kitchen, where I put a few slices of bread on a plate in case she’s hungry and take a seat at the table.
“That's the breakfast of champions?” She laughs and points at the stack of sliced sandwich bread, which appears stark and sad now that I look at it.
“I thought maybe you’d be hungry.”
It seems like she’s fighting a laugh, but instead, she nods. “That’s sweet. Mind if I put a piece in the toaster? And with butter, if you have some.” She doesn’t wait for my response. In a second, she’s up from the table, putting two slices into the toaster and rifling around in my fridge for butter. And jam. By the time the toaster pops out the slices, Callie has put the jam into a little bowl with a tiny spoon I didn’t know I owned. The butter is on a plate next to a little dish of apricot slices, and she’s poured her coffee into a ceramic mug with a cow on it.
She brings over the toast on a plate, along with another cow cup for me, and pours my takeout coffee into it. Within seconds, she’s transformed my drab, utilitarian kitchen table into the kind of photo-worthy display I’d never manage on my own in a zillion years.
It looks homey. She snaps a picture of me sipping my coffee and shows me. “This can double as photo proof of how smitten I’ve been with you, taking snaps of you doing everyday things like drinking coffee, and it can also be design inspiration when I source more cute vintage pieces to give Loveland that homey ranch touch.”
I ignore half of what she’s going on about and take a sip. It doesn’t matter that this is my third cup of the day. I’m so tired that caffeine barely affects me. Most of the parents at school have the same bleary look I do, and some of them have multiple kids, so I don’t have dibs on fatigue.
“Live a little,” she says, handing me an apricot slice.
“This is me living.”
She barks a laugh. “Why am I not surprised?”
I ignore the commentary. I have shit to do today, and posing for fake photos is not high on my list of fun ways to spend my time, especially since every time this woman brushes her hand against my arm or leans in, I feel an unwelcome desire to pull her close and see if her skin tastes as good as it smells.
“Let’s get this done, shall we? Do you have any ideas on how to do this?” I ask.
Callie pulls out her phone, scrolls through the screen until she finds something she likes, and hands it to me. “Here’s what my friend Tatum posted when she got engaged. It’s a slideshow of cute relationship moments. We could do some things like that.”
I hold my hand out to take her phone, but she doesn’t relinquish it. Instead, she scoots her kitchen chair right next to mine and shows me the pictures. One after the next of a happy couple doing what happy couples do—laughing while hip-deep in a river in fly fishing gear, kissing under mistletoe, smiling for selfies at the top of a hiking trail, clinking glasses at dinner with an ocean view in the background.
Without intending to, I blow out a noisy breath.
“Yes, Grumpalicious?”
I roll my eyes at the latest nickname, a little impressed that she keeps coming up with new ones. “This is going to take some doing. It’s not just people smiling in different clothes from the same front porch.”
“Well, duh. We have to account for vacations. Celebratory meals. Holidays. The whole passage of time? No one’s going to buy it if we don’t commit.”
