Until December (Until Her/Him #8)(32)

I have to agree; it is gross to think about what our parents do behind closed doors, but they have never been a couple to shy away from PDA. Since I was little, I have found them making out more than once. Thankfully though, it’s always been when they were fully clothed. If I ever did walk in on them doing the dirty, I would have to go in search of someone capable of erasing my memory.

“Anyway, what’s everyone doing today?” June asks, looking at each of us. “I was thinking of hitting up the mall after breakfast, since I have some time to kill while Evan and Tia are in Chattanooga visiting Colton and his wife.”

“I need to go to the drugstore,” I blurt without thinking, and everyone looks at me. Crap. “I need to pick up shampoo and body wash.”

“We can do both,” June suggests, and everyone agrees, making me wish I hadn’t opened my big mouth. There is no way I can get what I actually need from the drugstore with my sisters and mom present.

“We haven’t had a girls’ shopping day in forever. I love that idea. After we finish breakfast, we can walk to the drugstore down the block, then since I drove your dad’s SUV and we can all fit, I’ll drive us to the mall,” Mom says excitedly, and my stomach sinks as I listen to them all talk about what stores they want to go to. I cringe when they start talking about having lunch and seeing a movie after shopping.

While they are distracted, I pull out my cell phone and don’t even look at the few texts I have, since I’m sure they’re all from my sisters and mom asking where I was this morning. I go to my search link and google information about the morning after pill, feeling relief when I read that I have to take it within seventy-two hours after unprotected sex for it to be effective.

“Did he text?”

At April’s question I quickly exit the page I was looking at and glance at her. “Umm.” I click on my messages, and my heart beats harder when I see he did—not once but twice. The first message from him came in late last night when I was already in bed asleep.

Home in bed, thinking about you.

The second message is from early this morning.

What are your plans today? I’m taking the boys to the batting cages this afternoon then coming home to watch the Mets on TV and eat junk food.

“He did,” I whisper in disbelief.

“What did he say?” April asks, keeping her voice surprisingly quiet.

“He asked what I was doing today.”

“Did you message him back?”

“Not yet.” I shake my head, looking back at my cell phone and wondering exactly what I should say.

“Tell him you’re spending the day with your sisters but you’re free tonight if he wants to do something.”

“It’s Sunday.” I sigh, knowing how crazy Sundays are for me and I don’t have kids. I need to get ready to face another week of school.

“So?” April prompts, and I look over to find her frowning.

“He has kids,” I remind her, and understanding fills her features. “He can’t exactly come see me without having someone to look after them, and I don’t know if we are at a place where he’d feel comfortable having me around his boys.”

“You’re right. Still, you can let him know you do want to see him. Unless…” She pauses, studying me. “Do you want to see him again?”

“Absolutely,” I say, knowing without a doubt that there is something between us worth exploring, even with all the hurdles we might have to face along the way.

“Then you should tell him that. I know we think men should be able to read our minds, but they can’t. They only understand directness.”

“How do you know that?” I raise a brow.

“Because unlike you, my sweet, rule-following sister, I have had to experience falling for a guy, thinking he could read between the lines, and the unfortunate luck of finding out he couldn’t.”

My heart aches and a lump forms in my throat when I see the deep hurt she always tries to hide. I know she’s speaking from experience and talking about her ex, Cohen Abbott—the only guy she’s ever really loved, and the one that got away.

“I….” I don’t even know what to say to make her feel better. I can’t imagine having the image of the man I once loved forced down my throat each time I turned on the TV or looked at the magazine rack at the store. Or worse, having to hear his voice every time I turned on the radio, singing a song about lost love that I know is directed at me. “Maybe—”

“Please don’t,” she whispers tightly, cutting me off, and I swallow hard. “Just text Gareth and let him know you’d like to see him.”

“Okay.”

She looks away, and I pull in a breath, look down at my phone, and start to type.

I just saw your messages. I overslept this morning and had to rush to meet my sisters and my mom for breakfast, AKA an interrogation session regarding you and our date last night. Somehow, in the last few minutes, I’ve ended up agreeing to go to the mall and maybe a movie. I should be home by five. I don’t know if you’ll be free this evening, but if you are, I wouldn’t hate seeing you.

I press Send before I can talk myself out of it then hold my breath when a bubble appears under my sent text.

Interrogation? Should I come rescue you? I’m not sure I can get away this evening, but if you feel like eating pizza and wings for dinner, you can join me and my boys in front of the TV at my place.