The Hot Mess and the Heartthrob(43)
“That’s…wow.”
“You didn’t show for the meet-and-greet.” My heart is pounding. My tongue’s dry, and my voice is raspy.
If I’m wrong—
“You saw me. I didn’t make it up.”
“I saw you.”
“The bouncer—with the backstage pass—”
“I told him to give it to you between sets. But you didn’t show. You disappeared.”
“I was married, Levi.”
“I wasn’t—I wouldn’t have—Jesus, Ingrid, I—”
“I know. I know. I do. It wasn’t you. It was me. Daniel—my ex—he was already pissed that I was taking the sign. He said it was like I was cheating on him. And he was upset about watching Zoe when he rarely handled bedtime, and he kept texting that he was having trouble, and if I’d been out later than I said, he would’ve—that would’ve been the end. I knew that would’ve been the end. And it probably should’ve been, but I wouldn’t have Piper or Hudson if I’d used that pass, and they’re all a handful, but they’re my handful, and—I can’t believe you saw me. I can’t believe you remember me.”
I’m itchy in my own skin, like I’m naked on stage at Madison Square Garden. I’ve never told anyone all of that together. Not Tripp. Not Beck or Cash, who would get it. Not my mom either.
But Ingrid gets it.
She felt it.
And I hate her ex. I hate the sacrifices she has to make. Most of all, I hate that she feels guilty about anything. “One person can change the world, Ingrid. One person can change one person’s world. But you can’t do it if you’re afraid.”
“I—wow. This is blowing my mind a little. I…I changed your life?”
“It’s not why I keep coming back.” My tongue needs to consult my brain before I keep talking, but, as usual, it doesn’t. “It could’ve been anyone holding that sign. But I keep coming back because I’m glad it was you.”
“This might be better than phone sex.”
I smile. Leave it to Ingrid to break the weird tension, even if her voice is shaky. “Clearly, you’ve never had good phone sex.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever—Ah, Hudson. Good morning.”
“Mama snug-snug?” a sleepy, tiny voice says distantly over the phone.
My heart tugs with a memory of the first time I held my nephew. I’m a workaholic and I know it. Kids? Even less in the plan than marriage. I wouldn’t make a good dad. James and Emma are the closest I’ll get, so I drop by, read them books, chase them in the yard, help build play forts all over Tripp’s living room, and snuggle them at naptime, which they’re both about to outgrow. I’m the fun uncle that they can trust with anything, and I like it that way.
I miss the way they smelled when they were babies, my big brother told me a few weeks ago.
Hard agree.
I wonder if Ingrid misses it too.
The rustling noises on the other end of the phone have died away, replaced with the soft, non-stop chatter of a fully-activated four-year-old.
“Breakfast,” I say to Ingrid.
“Twenty-six minutes,” she repeats. “Eight thirty-two. Don’t be late.”
Fifteen
Ingrid
I don’t know if Levi is the punctual type, but I’m clearly not, which means I’m two minutes late to meeting him at the back door of the store to let him in for our breakfast date.
Despite being up first, Hudson was last to be ready for the day.
It’s basically a rule. If any of my kids are up early, they’re impossible to get ready on time. It’s like they think beating their alarm clocks by thirty minutes means they get three extra hours of playtime.
“You time, Ingrid,” I mutter to myself as I hustle down the alley after walking Hudson to preschool. I was trying to listen to an audiobook, which is my normal routine, but I couldn’t silence all the thoughts swirling in my head today. “Think about something other than your kids. Be a dazzling, interesting conversationalist. Be a grown-up without any responsibilities. Remember to smile. Show a little cleavage. Go for it if he offers to strip and take you on the table.”
The desert formally known as my vagina roars to life at that suggestion, and heat pools in my breasts.
Having a partner for sex is a novelty, and obviously, one my body’s on board for.
Having a partner who confessed this morning that he saw me, remembered me, and used my sign as inspiration to give his life meaning?
This should be overwhelming and terrifying, but instead, I’m feeling powerful.
Sexy.
Attractive.
Desirable.
Like Levi’s confession put us on a completely level playing field.
He’s not coming back because he’s into booty calls with frazzled moms.
He’s coming back because he sees me as something more. And maybe I should see me as something more too.
I spot a late-model Buick parked near the back door, and I blow out a relieved breath. Definitely not Levi. I have a minute to get myself together.
Is this a booty call?
Or is he just bringing breakfast?
I hope it’s cheesecake. And a booty call.