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Doing it.
“I’ll miss you this week.”
I just tug him into me further.
“See you soon, Matthew,” he adds with a grin when he finally pulls away from me. It’s only when he slips into the driver’s side that I call out, “Don’t count on it!”
He just rolls his window down and wiggles his fingers at me as his car disappears around the corner.
Chapter Four
Matt
Our marriage is official. Coop messages me Friday morning, showing me a screenshot that it’s been processed and I legally have a husband.
My stomach flips at the thought, and I find myself a little short on breath while yelling at my tenth-grade PE class. Yes, that’s right. I’m yelling, not teaching. This is what I’ve been reduced to.
Probably doesn’t help that I haven’t been sleeping well this week.
Apparently, my brain is convinced that I only sleep well with Coop.
On Coop.
“Stop putting boogers on the bleachers, Brixton! I mean it!” I shout and then rub at my chest. Between the marriage and this kid, I’m going to die.
I have a husband. Fuck, I’m having a heart attack.
I catch that little shit defiantly picking his nose as he watches me, and then see him wiping his finger on the stands. “Seriously, Brixton. Stop it. This is not a tissue. This is a gym!”
Brixton grins goofily at me, and I roll my eyes at him. I swear, this kid has been an issue since day one. He does everything to rile me up on purpose. I don’t know who his parents are, but I blame them.
No kid should be picking their nose at fifteen years old.
“Ten laps. Ten laps and let’s see how much you like your boogers after that.”
Brixton doesn’t even argue. Probably thinks it was worth it. He starts running, and I sigh, pulling my phone out and glancing down at the stupid GIF Coop sent me. One of a mover grabbing a box while the contents dump out at his feet.
He’s ridiculous. Ridiculous to think that I’m even going to entertain this. It’s been a whole four days since he dropped me off at my place. We’ve been messaging throughout the week, usually him sending selfies of himself doing silly, rich-people things. Like getting a massage on a Tuesday and then eating an artichoke on a boat on a Thursday. If I was wondering what he does all day, now I know.
He’s most definitely not yelling at Brixton about boogers at ten in the morning.
Must be nice.
But what is nice is that over the past week, I’ve gotten to know him and I don’t hate it. I don’t hate him.
In fact, my mind wanders to him far more than it should. At the most inappropriate times.
Like this morning when I touched my dick.
There’s a small chance Coop’s ass appeared in my mind as I came.
I’m all fucked up. I don’t even know what’s normal anymore.
My phone pings, and I see a message from Mitch. My stomach churns when I see that he’s asking if we’re meeting tomorrow for soccer tryouts. This morning, I met him at the gym, and the entire time was spent dodging questions about my absence this past weekend. I ended up making silly excuses as to what was going on with me and why I wasn’t calling him back.
At one point I mentioned my urethra.
I don’t think he got it, and to be honest, neither did I. I was just grasping at straws.
