Just My Type(81)

The entire room erupts into cheering and shouts as Baker’s head whips to the side, and then he just goes down like a ton of bricks in the middle of the ring.

“Jesus Christ!” I shout over the cheering and noise, climbing up onto the ring and through the ropes.

I race across the mat and drop to my knees right next to Baker, leaning over his body and pressing my hands gently to either side of his face as I turn his head toward mine. He blinks his eyes a few times as he stares up at me.

“You dumbass, are you okay?” I ask, looking back and forth between his eyes as he continues to blink and stare up at me, making me worried that he isn’t saying anything.

“You pussy! Never get distracted by a woman, no matter how hot of an ass she has.”

I look back over my shoulder with a smile, at the man who just punched my boyfriend.

“Thank you, Dax. That’s very kind of you to say.”

“My pleasure. What are you doing later? Wanna come play with my otters?”

“All right, that’s enough out of both of you dickholes,” Baker mutters, finally saying something and letting me know Dax didn’t just give him permanent brain damage.

I drop my hands from his face and skirt back a bit on my knees when Baker sits up with a groan, holding a hand to the side of his face and moving his jaw back and forth.

“That was a cheap shot,” Baker complains, looking up at Dax, who still stands behind me.

“I know. Now we’re even.”

Dax walks away and I watch him climb under the ropes and jump down from the ring, whistling the entire way.

“You look good,” Baker says softly, his voice making me turn my head back around to look at him.

“Suck my dick. I look like shit, because I just got off a plane and came straight here to tell you you’re an asshole,” I inform him. “Don’t try to butter me up with compliments.”

“So, you got the transcription file.” He sighs, bending his knees and resting his arms on top of them. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in Montana.”

“Yeah, to talk to my brother and Brooklyn alone. Which I did. And then I assumed I would relax and enjoy my quiet time on the farm until my fucking boyfriend met me there next week, like we originally planned.”

When his head whips to me and I see his eyes widen, my good friend rage comes back outside to play. Even though I heard it in his audio file, I was still holding out a tiny bit of hope it was a joke. That he was high as a fucking kite or something, and didn’t honestly think I was this much of a badass. Moving without telling him would just make me an ass.

“Jesus Christ, you asshole!” I shout again, shoving him in the shoulder. “You honestly thought I would just pack up my shit and move without discussing it with you first! I don’t know whether to punch you on the other side of your face for insulting me, or just punch you in the face, because you’re a dumbass.”

“But… I saw all the boxes at your place. I just….” he trails off guiltily.

“You just assumed, because you’re an asshole!” I remind him.

“Don’t be mad,” Baker quickly says, his eyes immediately widening again. “I didn’t mean to say that! I take it back. Jesus Christ, why did I say that? You should just punch me now and get it over with. You have every right to be mad.”

I roll my eyes at his dramatics and then scoot closer to him on my knees.

“You thought I left you,” I whisper, my eyes suddenly clouding with tears. “That I would actually do something so cold, and heartless, and just leave after everything… after everything.”

“Ember, no,” Baker stops me, shaking his head back and forth, removing one arm from his knee to press his hand to my cheek and finally touch me. “I never for one minute thought you moving back home and not discussing it with me was cold or heartless. I understood. It’s your home. It’s where you’ve always wanted to be, and I knew that. It’s where your family is, and it’s where you want to raise your son. I would never, ever stand in the way of that, or make that harder on you by talking it to death, or making you feel guilty about leaving.”

Bringing my hand up, I press it on top of his against my cheek.

“I did have big dreams about raising Lincoln in White Timber. I wanted him to experience the simple life, and coming inside from playing only when the barn lights come on, and catching fireflies in between the rows of pumpkins at night, and the responsibility and hard work of living on a farm, to carry him through life, surrounded by grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins,” I tell Baker. “And then I was forced to move to the city and leave everything behind. And I was miserable, and sad, and homesick, and felt sorry for myself.”

Leaning forward, I rest my forehead against Baker’s.

“And then I met this guy who didn’t make me feel so miserable, and didn’t make the city seem so big, and loud, and lonely. I met a guy who gave me everything,” I whisper, my voice cracking with all the tears I’m trying to hold in. “Everything from his emails pulling me out of my shell, to his interview-slash-dates that yanked me out of my hermit, city-hating lifestyle so I could remember how to have fun and be me. Every moment from first meeting at Starbucks, to hatchet throwing, to just ordering take-out and staying home, and how much he cares about my son. It’s everything, and it’s every reason I want to be here, in Chicago with you, instead of Montana.”