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Marriage.
Kids.
Lots of kids.
A huge family with wild adventures and vacations all across the globe.
Unfortunately for me, that’s not a conversation I make it to with most women I shag.
“Well,” Gabby says loudly, pulling my gaze up to hers, “you gonna call ‘Stacy’s Mom’ or what?”
Amusement tugs at my lips again, yet Big T belligerently bites, “Who the fuck is Stacy?”
“There is no actual Stacy, baby,” Gabby swiftly reassures while retrieving creamer from the fridge. “I’m just givin’ primo a bit of the business.” The door shutting is followed by her adding. “You know tugging his balls.”
“Do not touch his balls,” her girlfriend hisses.
“She’s never touched my balls,” I immediately announce.
“I would never touch his balls,” Gabby sighs as she unscrews the lid.
“Do not even think about his balls,” Big T commands.
On a light chuckle, I suggest, “Could we please stop talking about my balls?”
Gabby grunts a laugh, and the sound seems to put her partner momentarily at ease. She carefully begins filling the mug and continues the conversation with me. “If you want my opinion-”
“Do I ever?” I juvenilely jab back.
“Why wouldn’t you?” Big T barks. “She’s fucking brilliant!”
“You have got to breathe, babe,” Gabby scolds prior to turning to face me. “And you have got to call this woman. We need another body in this apartment to balance out the constant hostility.”
Grinning mindlessly occurs. “My calling her is strictly about your needs then?”
“As they damn well should be,” she playfully pokes back.
“Only I should be tending to your needs,” Big T bellyaches, loudly. Firmly.
“Then why don’t we go tend to those now while primo makes the most important phone call of his life,” my best mate offers on the grabbing of a spoon.
“You may be overselling this situation a tiny bit, Gabby.”
“Or maybe, you might just be underprepared for it, Tate.” Her sassy retort is accompanied by the stirring of her beverage, a wink, and the eventual leading of her girlfriend out of the room by the hand.
Flopping backwards on a heavy sigh is done the second I hear her bedroom door shut.
Perhaps she’s right.
Maybe I’m not ready for whatever dating a divorcee entails. Is it really any different than dating any other type of woman? And why am I assuming she wants to date rather than just spend a few days shagging? Am I being hopeful? Am I leading with that train of thought because it’s what I ultimately want? Am I reluctant about starting something because for the first time, in a long time, I think this shite could really go somewhere?
For fucks sake, do I have to know all of these answers before I simply dial?
Sounds of sudden moaning lead to me rolling off the furniture and grabbing my cell to bail to the balcony patio. Outside, my arse gets braced against the railing while I casually dial, buying myself time to calm my nerves.
Steady my voice.
I don’t know why I’m nervous.
