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That was close. Because yeah, eww. Then again, I’ve eaten cold chicken at eight in the morning, so who am I to judge.
Me: I’ll be there within the hour. Let me know if you think of anything else.
Twenty minutes later, fish tacos in my car – thank goodness I’d planned on making them for my dinner tonight – I’m walking through the grocery store, getting what Zoe needs, when I get a notification.
Fairy Tale: I think you’re great.
I stop so fast another shopper bumps into my heels with their cart, but I don’t care. That feeling has nothing on seeing Zoe say that.
While retrieving the rest of the items, and a few extras, I’m so far above cloud nine that seeing the person ahead of me at the register writing a check doesn’t even faze me.
Once the bags are in my car, I reply to Zoe.
Me: His greatness is on his way.
Fairy Tale: How long until you’re here? I need to widen my door frame so your big head will fit through.
Me: Oh, you’ve got jokes.
Fairy Tale: There’s a whole thing about Dad jokes. Moms can be funny, too.
In no time, I’m at Zoe’s. While I’ve never been here before, we did exchange addresses as well as numbers before parting at the coffee shop.
During our chats since, she’s learned that I’m an only child, why my sperm was at MDH, just as I discovered she grew up in the system and that led to her decision to visit said establishment.
We’re both fully aware how badly this entire situation could have gone, and equally thankful it didn’t.
Me: I’m here.
Fairy Tale: Me, too.
Exiting my car, I wrap the handles of my reusable bags around one wrist, leaving the other free to knock.
Or to catch Zoe as she flings herself at me within seconds of opening the door. Uncaring about the contents of the bags, I let them fall from my arm and wrap it around her along with the one already there.
“It’s okay,” I murmur over and over. “I’ve got you.”
“Hormones are a bitch,” she sobs out.
“And bitches be trippin’,” I agree, making her snicker.
“Fact,” Zoe concurs, her smile showing up and putting the sun to shame. Point for me.
Reaching down, I retrieve the bags and follow her inside. The place is small, yet homey. Mine has more space, but lacks the personal touches hers has. A point to Zoe.
She takes me to the kitchen, which is unnecessary as I can see it from where we’re standing, though I don’t say anything, sensing she’s trying to get her bearings after that hug.
I begin removing items, watching where she puts them so I can do it next time. When that task is finished, I glance at her feet, trying, and failing, not to chuckle when I find the right encased in a sandal and the left in a white canvas shoe.
“Could be a new trend,” I tease her.
It takes her a second to realize what I’m referring to and her face crumples. Shit on a cracker. I didn’t want to make her cry again. That’s okay. I was able to stop it once. I can do so again.
Except, she’s laughing.
Oh, thank God.
“I mean, the right was overheating a bit.”
