When we walk into the ice cream shop, I barely resist the impulse to shout, “Everything. Give her one of everything.” I want to buy her a scoop of each flavor. Hell, I want to buy her the whole fucking shop and hang a sign on the front with her name on it. This does not bode well for my imminent departure. Not at all. By some insane twist of fate, I’ve gone from wrestling convicts to the ground, dodging gunfire and nursing injuries in motel rooms to holding this woman’s hand on an ice cream date. How in God’s name did I get here?
More importantly, how do I go back to thinking of me and Taylor as temporary?
Can’t seem to do it, no matter how much logic I shed on the situation.
Which is crazy when there are so many factors working against us. I live on the road. She’s in a stable routine in Connecticut. She wants a husband and kids.
And I definitely don’t want that.
Definitely not.
But while she’s leaning forward and smiling down at the heaping piles of ice cream on the other side of the glass, maybe…maybe I just let myself imagine it. Us walking into this place with a kid on my shoulders, their grimy fingers in my hair. Taylor with another bun in the oven.
Pregnant, because I got her that way.
It takes me a moment to move on from the images that brings to mind.
Okay. Way longer than a moment.
Would we make love as usual and just leave it to chance? Or would she…would we fuck with the express intent of getting her pregnant? Christ. That would be…
Don’t think about how satisfying it would be. Don’t think about looking her in the eye when I come and knowing it serves a purpose beyond physical pleasure. Don’t think of her wrapping her thighs tighter, tilting her hips and praising me for my healthy swimmers.
Unless they aren’t healthy.
Then we’ll have to see a doctor. Do the whole fertility thing—
Dear God, how did I get to a fertility doctor?
Back to the ice cream shop. There’s a kid on my shoulders. Probably in a Red Sox jersey. Since Taylor is pregnant, she’ll probably have cravings and order something other than her usual butterscotch. She’d have extra napkins in her purse to wipe our kid’s face. I’d promise to rub her swollen feet when we get home.
Home.
What would that look like?
“Myles.” Taylor’s voice breaks into my thoughts. She’s looking at me funny. “Did you hear me? I asked if you wanted to stick with cookie dough or try the vastly superior butterscotch.”
“Cookie dough,” I manage around the prickle in my throat. I have to let go of her hand to reach for my wallet, but I keep an eye on it as I pay for the ice cream, so I can collect it again as soon as possible. I like holding her hand a lot. I’m not sure if I like her defending my honor to her brother’s friend, so much as it makes my chest feel…like sifting sand. It has been a long time since someone spoke up for me like that. My brother was probably the last person to say something nice about me. Out loud.
And for the first time in three years, I suddenly want to call Kevin.
I want to call him, tell him about Taylor and ask him what the hell I’m supposed to do about her. He had his own ups and downs with his husband, right? He’d probably be able to give me some insight. Really, I’d just like to speak to him…period. My parents, too. My old colleagues. I’ve been on the road, numb for three years and the thaw is wearing off.
On some level, I recognize what this means. The woman standing beside me is very good for me. She’s gotten under my skin, challenged me, turned me on like nobody’s business. Now her apparent belief in me is forcing me to examine myself, my life and actions.
I’m just not sure I want to do that.
I’m not sure I’m ready to face the past and do the work to overcome it.
The teenage girl behind the register hands me some change and I drop it into the tip cup. Ice cream cone in one hand, Taylor’s hand in the other, we leave the shop.
“You’re very quiet,” she remarks, her tongue dragging around the butter yellow scoop, slowly, making my fingers tighten around hers. “Are you thinking about the case?”
“Yes,” I say, too quickly.
God forbid she finds out I’m scheduling imaginary fertility doctors. Which is absolutely not going to happen in reality. My imagination is just a lot more vivid than I realized.
“Yeah…I’m thinking about Evergreen Corp. Who could be behind it.” I scan our surroundings, parked cars, doorways, the faces of passersby, making sure there is no threat to Taylor. Since we left the house, ominous-looking clouds have moved in overhead, so there are very few people on the street. Store owners are dragging in sandwich boards from the sidewalk, diners are moving inside. Rain is coming.