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Copy that. I open up the window. My jacket it downstairs, but—c’est la vie, I guess it’s taking one for the team. I’m halfway on the tree branch, halfway in her window, when I glance back and add, “I’ll climb out the window. One condition.”
“What?”
“Come to my parents dinner this weekend?”
“Yes!” she says, exasperated. “Fine! Now leave!”
“Sweet.” I wink. “See you later.”
And then I drop, shimmying down the tree. My car is parked across the street, so I slide into it and warm it up.
I got up and out of there so fast, my condom is still clinging to me. Awkwardly, I reach into my pants, snap it off, and put it…where?
There’s an old coffee cup sitting in the console. Sure.
A minute ago, I was telling Kenzi I loved her. Now, I’m stashing used condoms in coffee mugs.
Life is weird.
I’m about to peel out when I see through her window—Kenzi has made it downstairs. She scoops Otto up, and the kid laughs in her arms.
The sight warms me, like taking a sip of hot cider on a snowy day. She’s a good mom.
I might’ve told her on an impulse, but I realize now that I meant it. I really do love this woman. I want to be part of that picture. Me, Kenzi, Otto, Donovan. One big happy family. It could work, right? Why not?
I start up the car and slowly drive away, back toward my place.
66
Kenzi
It’s only later that I realize what I’ve done. After dinner has been made and consumed, after Otto has taken his bath and gotten into his pj’s, after we’ve read a chapter of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Only when the house is quiet and still and I’m lying awake, staring at the ceiling, does it hit me.
I agreed to dinner with Jason’s family.
I’m going to have to sit across the table from Mr. Fucking King.
Jesus Christ, save me.
67
Donovan
Jason always loses his mind before seeing his parents.
The day of the dinner, he spends the whole day walking around the house, completely scatterbrained. He’ll be making an omelet one second, and the next second I’ll find him trimming his hair in the bathroom, omelet already forgotten in the kitchen.
“You’re doing that thing,” I tell him.
“What thing?” He’s finally eating his (probably cold at this point) omelet, standing up at the kitchen. He’s carried a bottle of shampoo in from the bathroom, and it sits beside him while he eats—why?
I’m about to point it out to him when there’s a knock on the door. Jason walks, barefoot, to the door and opens it up.
Kenzi comes blustering in. “Hey!” she says. “I’m only here for a second—did I leave a hair curler here?”
Apparently, Jason isn’t the only one with scatterbrain. “In the bathroom,” I tell her. “Bottom right drawer.”
Kenzi has been squirreling things away at our place. It’s a side effect of spending the stray night over here. First, it was just a couple of pairs of panties. Now, it’s hair product. Makeup. A blazer.
