Do You Take This Man (60)

RJ: Do I want to FaceTime you guys from the airport while you get drunk at a club?



I did, except I had a mountain of work to catch up on, and I knew once I set foot in Chicago, I wouldn’t get anything accomplished.


RJ: I should work, but text me later. I don’t want to hear about your amazing sex life, though. You get real sharey when you drink.

Britta: I make no promises. I have a great sex life.

Kat: I’ll make sure she’s all shared out by the time we call.

Kat: Not that I want to know about Wes’s . . . stuff.

Britta: Wes has excellent stuff. It’s the stuff of legends.



I laughed to myself, earning side-eye from the older woman perched next to me reading a paperback.


Del: I wish you guys would take me off this group chat. I have my own stuff.

Kat: Sorry, Del.

Britta: I’m not. You know you love us.


RJ: I’ll talk to you guys later, but have fun!



I set my phone aside and glanced around the seating area for an open outlet. I’d checked in, breezed through security, and settled at my gate hours ago. Between a late plane, a late crew, and the mechanical difficulties, I was wondering if driving might have been faster. A casualty of the wait was my laptop sitting at twelve percent battery life.

To my left, six kids sat in a tight circle, each with a device held to their faces and the cords running into the three closest outlets. Across the way, two large men had spread out so thoroughly as to take up five spaces between them, and their gear was blocking two more, but I didn’t have the fight in me to get between them.

With a sigh, I closed my laptop and tucked it in my bag, standing at the same time as my phone buzzed. I smiled, sure it was Del complaining more about how we treated him like one of the girls. I started walking, passing a coffee kiosk and a candy shop. Gate after gate was full, and my stomach rumbled as I neared the food court.

After ordering some fast food, I stepped to the side to wait, the tempting smell of fries in the air, and pulled my phone from my pocket.


Lear: Weddings are more fun with you here.



A smile tugged at my lips, and I glanced around as if someone in the space would, first, be paying attention to me and, second, care that I was grinning at a text from a man I claimed to not like.


RJ: Why?



The person behind the counter called my number, and I tucked my phone away to claim my paper bag filled with French fries and a cheeseburger that would be the highlight of the next several hours. Balancing the food with my luggage, I wheeled out of the area and saw an open outlet at a nearby gate. I pounced into action, speed walking to the spot before anyone could take it. Unfortunately, a man took the seat before I could reach it, but I persevered, and in my slacks and the silk camisole I’d worn with my long-abandoned blazer, I plopped down onto the floor sitting crisscross applesauce and plugged in my laptop.

My phone buzzed again and I unlocked it, grabbing a few fries from the bag.


Lear: This minister isn’t as good a kisser as you.



I smiled, pausing with my fries halfway to my face.


RJ: They must like you too much.


Lear: That’s probably the issue.

RJ: Maybe you should tell them to smile more.



The dots bounced as I settled into my new work space, laptop on my knees and food next to me. I wrangled my suitcase into a desk of sorts and ignored the man who’d stolen my seat watching me curiously.


Lear: I’ll try that.

Lear: I do feel bad that I told you to smile more. You should have slapped me.


RJ: I wanted to.

Lear: What stopped you?

RJ: I was on the ground and you were standing over me. I couldn’t reach your face.


Lear: I did offer to help you up, but you could have kicked me in the shin.

RJ: I should have kicked you in the balls. I’ll keep it in mind for next time I see you.


Lear: Kinky. I’m not usually into that, but I’ll try it. My safe word is Motownphilly.



I settled against the wall, giving up on returning to work for a few minutes.

    RJ: You think you’re so funny.


Lear: I am funny. It’s one of many things you like about me.



I did like him. Along the way, he’d stopped getting under my skin and wormed his way into my head.


RJ: Sometimes. Where are you now, anyway? Still at the wedding?


Lear: Home. You?



I took a quick video, scanning the terminal and ending on my face.


Lear: Where are you going?

RJ: Chicago, if my flight ever takes off.


Lear: What’s in Chicago?



He didn’t know I was from Illinois. There was a lot we didn’t know about each other, and something about that was comforting, safe. Normal, instead of whatever I’d been feeling since he’d asked me to dance after that kid grabbed my ass. The dance was nice. Before the dance was . . . weird. Nice. Weird. I still couldn’t decide, because it felt like we’d said things we’d never actually uttered. Things I hadn’t said to anyone.


RJ: My friend’s bridal shower.


Lear: You just can’t stay away from weddings. Here I thought it was me.