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At some point, there was a brief discussion on how orgasms can help with headaches before we put the theory to the test.
By the time we got back to the house, my headache was cured.
“Why didn’t you tell me? Cheryl and I could’ve stopped,” Mom said, worried.Exactly why I didn’t tell her yesterday.
“I was going to send Decker, but he was rubbing my head and made it feel so much better,” I blurted out the threadbare excuse.
Mom stared at me, looked at Decker, and then when her gaze returned, it was glistening.Oh no.Whatever she was going to say, it was going to be bad. The doctor had instructed her to take her pain medication before going to therapy, but even at a minimal dose, it lowered her filter.Or maybe it just gave her an excuse.
“He’s good at taking care of you, honey.”
“Mom…” I stepped closer.
“How do you feel about kids, Decker?”
“Oh my god, Mom.” My cheeks flamed, but of course, Decker took the question in stride.
“I like kids—I’d like to have kids,” he answered with a smile that made my insides tingle.
Kids with Decker.All I could think of was how he’d be as a father. Kind. Patient.Indulgent.Loving. All these things I’d learned within mere weeks of meeting the man because there were just some kinds of knowledge—some lessons—that were instantaneous. Like touching a hot stove would burn. Or going out in the middle of winter without a coat would be freezing. And in this case, that Decker Connolly was exactly the kind of man I’d convinced myself didn’t exist so my hopes were never hurt.
“Reese always wanted kids. Three of them, she’d tell me when she was younger—”
“Mom, enough,” I interrupted, my tone hard, though I suddenly felt the urge to cry.
And she saw it. “Reese…”
“I have to go to the store. I’ll be back in a little,” I said and walked out of the room, hoping neither of them caught the way I swiped my hands over my cheeks to make sure no tears skated by.
* * *
“Reese, is that you?”
I stilled in front of the fridge that I’d just closed the door of.Damn.
Mom had been asleep in her chair when I got back from the store. I tried to be quiet as I unpacked all the groceries, but apparently, not quiet enough.
I’d spent the last hour roaming the aisles, simultaneously shopping and trying to decompress. I shouldn’t have been angry, I told myself. She could ask what she wanted, that was the whole point of having Decker—so he could give her the answers she desperately wanted. But in the moment, it hadn’t felt like one more faked conversation.
For the first half hour, I tried to blame it on the sex. Blame it on myself for knowing better—knowing that it would complicate things. I’d gone from being putty in that man’s hands, the way he made me feel a very real phenomenon, to having to step back into the role of fake girlfriend, where I didn’t wonder nor care about what our fake future looked like—where I didn’t crave the fantasy.
But I did.
I did, and it had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with Decker.
“Yeah, it’s me,” I called, hoping she’d leave it at that.
She didn’t.
“Can you come here?”
I inhaled deeply and rolled my shoulders back.Just apologize. Blame the headache. And move on,I coached myself as I walked into the living room, meeting my mother’s concerned stare.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Fine.” I folded my arms.
“Bullshit.”
