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I can’t open my left eye, and I’m not even in TLC.
This morning, I tried gluing on individual lashes. You know, since one of my boyfriends, who’s arachnophobic, shit his shorts at the sight of my usual lash strips.
And this is the thanks I get for being a lashified, sensitive girlfriend.
“He’s going to like y’all.” Colt’s chest is shaking. The cute fucker is trying not to laugh, either. “Don’t worry.”
“Fine,” I huff. “Gimme a minute.”
I stomp up, wedging my way through the crowd, seeking the ladies’ room to yank these damn things off because Colt’s right. Forrest won’t care. He’ll barely notice I’m there.
He’ll be so focused on Colt or Beau.
We don’t know who Forrest’s biological father is. Reese did the test. She got the results, but we don’t know them yet. They’re sealed in an envelope because Colt wanted to find out this way—in person, with me and Beau here.
Like once and for all, his haunting question will be answered.
But more importantly, Forrest has been told about babies and biological parents. Reese said she and her husband worked with a counselor on how to do this. They’ve had many talks to prepare for today when we’ll follow her home.
Today, when Forrest meets his father.
We just need to know if it’s Beau or Colt.
Staring in the bathroom mirror, I curse, plucking off the fake lashes.
I guess I did this dumb shit because I’m nervous, too.
This won’t be easy. I’m so mad at Reese. So is Beau. I’m surprised if he’ll even speak to her today. He’s not angry about her cheating on him. He’s enraged about all she’s put Colt through.
Yes, Colt is the size of a Viking, but his heart is even bigger. He’s just a giant, ink-covered, muscle-wielding cinnamon roll with a very hard, ripped, long, smooth exterior.
Did I mention hard? Because Colt is. A lot. I’m surprised he doesn’t pass out from blood loss due to erections.
But then again, Beau would be in a coma by now. He’s equally guilty.
And yes, Beau can be so tender, too, but not when he’s protective.
Then, he’s evil.
Like last week when he had enough of the photographers stalking us.
They follow Beau’s truck everywhere. So he pulled through the Starbucks near his house and ordered a round of coffees for them. Then, he strolled up to their cars parked behind us, carrying a drink tray of steaming cups, and said, “Here you go, boys. You’ve been up all day, following me around. I thought you might need a good jolt.”
Oh, it was a jolt.
Beau stirred three tablespoons of unflavored laxative powder into each one.
“Do this shit to me,” I warned, laughing while I watched him do it over the center console of his truck, “and you’re dead.”
“Kitten, I may give you shit.” He kissed my cheek over his piping hot cups of revenge. “But it’s always safe with me.”
Cute asshole stole my line from college.
When I return to our table, I see Reese pushing open the glass door. She searches for us, and I wave.
It’s weird. Reese looks great. She looks healthy, and I’m relieved. We were best friends once. Deep down, I care. But I can’t forget what she did. I just hope to be like Colt and forgive her in time.
Beau struggles, too. “Hi,” is all he says to her as she sits with us at the table.
