Just My Type(53)

I smile through the tears pooling in my eyes, the residual anger I’d been trying to hold onto so tightly, melting away even more.

He’s been carrying my baggage since the day we started emailing, knowing I wouldn’t jump head-first into dating someone I just met. He took his time, and he waited for me to… turn the fucking page. Because it had to be my choice. I had to be sure. I was with the same man for almost ten years. I’d been alone since him, which I word-vomited to Baker the second time we were together. He wouldn’t really cross that line with me, no matter how much he flirted, until I cancelled that pinky swear and I made my choice.

Why am I even hesitating right now? It’s just as ridiculous as trying to keep things professional between us. It’s making me cranky and uptight.

“Fine. He can carry that shit if he wants. Whatever.” I shrug, studying my nails like it’s no big deal.

Oh, God, this is such a big deal.



“Mom! Dad wants to talk to you!”

Lincoln’s shout from out by the front door makes me look at the alarm clock on my nightstand, not even realizing it was time for him to be home from school already. On the Fridays of Brandon’s weekends, Brandon picks Lincoln up from school, they stop by here so Lincoln can pack a bag, and then Lincoln stays at his place. Brandon has been cancelling or switching nights so much recently that I’m surprised they’re actually on time and Brandon did what he was supposed to.

Time flew by quickly the last two hours while Blake and I got Ron Jeremy out of his cage, so he could hiss at me and then snuggle up in her arms and take a nap. After that, she talked about meeting Rachel online, I told her about the pumpkin farm back home, and she randomly inserted creepy, serial killer facts every so often that had absolutely nothing to do with what we were talking about.

I really, really like Baker’s sister.

Blake then made me take her to my closet, with Ron Jeremy still asleep in the crook of her arm, so she could pick out something for me to wear on my date with her brother. I tried getting it out of her five times while she flung items at me to try on, but she refused to even give me a hint. Which just made the nerves that much worse. Did she pick out an outfit that truly screams, “I will stab you with my fork if I don’t get any warm bread”?

Who’s to know? Because Blake won’t fucking tell me where Baker is taking me.

“Mooom!” Lincoln shouts again.

I turn away from the mirror over my dresser, walking quickly past Blake as she gets off of my bed, gingerly cradling a sleeping Ron Jeremy against her chest as she moves.

“I better go see what this is about,” I tell Blake as she meets me by the door.

“I’ll go put this guy in his cage and give you guys a few minutes to talk before I bring him out for the Brandon hand-off,” she tells me, both of us moving out into the hallway. “I’ll most likely be standing somewhere close by eavesdropping, but far enough away so you won’t know I’m eavesdropping. You give my brother heart-eyes. My brother’s not fucking around with you, which means I’m not fucking around with you. I’ll be checking out the baggage in case both you pussies bitch about carrying it.”

With a little bump of her shoulder against mine and a smile, Blake walks around me and exits the hallway in front of me, walking toward the kitchen to go put Ron Jeremy away, her short, wavy, pink hair bouncing as she goes. I see Lincoln standing next to the open front door where Brandon is waiting for me, and it feels like I’m walking through quicksand as I move across my living room with all this fucking emotional goo swirling around my feet.

When I finally make it to the door, I give Lincoln a hug and kiss to the top of his head before he races over to the kitchen, where he saw his beloved R.J. disappear with Blake moments ago. When Lincoln is out of sight, and a few seconds later I can hear muffled talking between him and Blake, I turn back around to face Brandon.

Jesus, he looks like shit.

His hair that’s normally perfectly styled, with every strand slicked back using a bunch of froo-froo, expensive hair product shit, is a mess of hairs all over the place, like he’s been gripping it in his fists. Brandon’s always clean and neatly pressed three-piece suit has been replaced with just a white, wrinkled, Polo T-shirt that he always wears under the dress shirt of his suit, and a pair of equally wrinkled black dress pants.

“You look great,” Brandon says, a hint of embarrassment in his voice as he looks down at himself before shoving his hands in his pockets.

My, my, how the tables have turned.

I almost snort as I think those words, when they remind me of Baker and one of his emails to me about my suspected prison kink.

I know I look great, and not like the pile of uncaring, un-showering, chocolate-that-might-be-shit-licking person Brandon has witnessed for so long since the divorce.

Blake dressed me in a pair of boyfriend capri jeans that sit low on my hips, with a wide-cuffed hem and little rips and tattered tears down the legs. Even though the boyfriend style made them a little baggy, she said they made my ass that her brother loves so much look “smoking hot.” I assumed Blake was an expert on the smoking hot female ass, since I am comfortable enough with myself to admit I’ve seen her wife’s ass, and it’s a pretty stellar one. I trusted her judgment. She paired the capris with a gray, loose-fitting cotton tank top with thin spaghetti straps that shows a decent amount of my cleavage without being indecent and has buttons going all the way down the front. The tank top ties in a knot right by my belly-button, showing some slivers of my stomach when I move. Blake told me to throw my hair up into a messy bun and slip on some comfy flip flops, assuring me I was dressed appropriately for what Baker has planned.