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“No, let us leave the purchases,” she insists.
Concerned, I set her basket on the floor. (My elbow moans in relief.) I take her face and tilt it up a fraction until we’re eye to eye. “Hey. What’s freaking you out?”
Her gaze searches mine. “Did you see a male like me?” she asks.
I take in her ears, horns, and scales. And her leathery locks of hair. “Nope.”
Her eyes have lightened to a shade of lilac, looking so, so serious. “What about males with wings?”
“Definitely did not see that,” I assure her.
She relaxes. “Okay.” She glances around again, her delicate nostrils flaring. Customers are eyeing us as they wind around aisles stuffed with cute craft crap—they’re eyeing her, really, but no one bothers us. They probably see her basket of faux skin fabric (along with everything else) and assume she’s a woman who likes to make elaborate costumes and she’s here for more supplies.
We don’t abandon her things, and I insist on hauling her basket to the checkout, and if Inara is extra observant of other shoppers, she doesn’t seem freaked anymore. We check out and head to work, and there’s no trouble.
The night goes great. The next week goes great too. My family pesters me for information but gives me space, not showing up unannounced or anything. Which, admittedly is much more polite than I’ve been in the reverse situation during their dating years. It’s far better than I deserve, but then again I think my family doesn’t want to risk scaring my new woman away.
Instead of Inara and me continuing to soak up experiences alone as a couple, we invite Inara’s small circle of friend (Stacy) and head to the mall to go on a shopping trip. We do an employee cookout in the parking lot with Sal, Jason, and me manning the burgers, dogs, and brats.
(Then later, Inara laughs a little evilly when she eats the hell out of s’mores with Stacy. It’s a little unnerving.)
Inara and I do all the things.
“He’s taking you ondates,”Stacy whispers so loudly that everyone can hear it from here to the next block.
My knee-jerk response is to shut her down—but I don’t. I don’t because the immediate reaction I feel is agreement. As far as my system is concerned, Inara and Iaredating.
But Inara is leaving.You need to stop getting attached, asshole. Even if she wants to, she can’t stay. It’s notsafefor her to stay.
Ultimately, developing any deeper feelings is only going to end up with me sitting in my boxers on my couch staring at a wall and moping like a sad sack for the rest of my life over a woman who I knew from the beginning wasn’t mine to keep and I should never have gotten close enough to grow feelings for.
Quit. Getting. Attached.
I keep hoping if I warn myself enough that it’ll click, and this—everything Inara and I are doing—will turn into simple fun, and it won’t end with me getting my heart shredded apart when she has to leave.
Yes, I’m aware I’m an idiot. Not even a hopeful one, because no part of me actually believes that what we have is going to end in anything other than me taking the equivalent of a fiery cannonball to the chest.
The door to my office is open. So unfortunately, what rips me out of my wallowing/personal therapy session is the fact that I can hear Stacy only too well, like I have some sort of inner-alarm for these things, when she confides to Inara, “...because my boyfriend’s backseat is super uncomfortable.”
I twitch so hard that my pen whips out of my hand and goes sailing across the room.
“Why is it uncomfortable for you?” Inara asks innocently. “Matthew’s transporter’s rear seat looks as plush and welcoming as his passenger and captain’s chair.”
“You’re cute,” Stacy chuckles. “‘Captain’s chair.’ The ah, ‘rear transporter seat’ is sort of cramped and the seat belts dig in when he—”
A growl is sticking hard to my throat, so it takes me two tries to cough, “Stacy!”
Her pretty blonde-highlighted head slowly peeps into my doorway. “You bellowed, Mr. Crabby?”
“Kid, stay out of your boyfriend’s back fucking seat,” I order.
All the hesitancy melts from her, and suddenly I’ve got a spunky teenager challenging me with her perfectly manicured hands planted on her hips. “My mom’s dating again, Matt.”
“Good for her,” I bite—but I’m confused. What does her mom dating have anything to do with Stacy doing adult shit in the back of her kid-boyfriend’s shitty little Honda Civic?
Stacy’s eyes widen, her expertly waxed brows going up—one might believe she looks surprised, but that’s for the uninitiated in battling with women. Wise men with mothers and sisters who have warrior spirits know this expression means imminent challenge.
“Yeah, it is. And what I’m saying is, there’s an opening for a dad position if your attempt to boss me around in my personal life means you want to step up to the plate. The day you date my mom, marry her, and sign my adoption papers is the day you’ll have the right to tell me what I can or can’t do with my boyfriend.”
