J-Pop: I didn’t have the nerve to ask you in person. Did you…? Has that happened yet? Has DOT DOT DOT happened?
J-Pop: You would get the reference if you liked musicals. ABBA? Nothing?
J-Pop: Are you still there?
T-Diddy: You have reached the voicemail of Nonya Business. Please leave a message at the bleeped expletive. *&^%#$
J-Pop: You haven’t. How am I supposed to leave now? What if you need me for The Talk?
T-Diddy: You want to give me The Talk?
J-Pop: I would rock The Talk.
T-Diddy: Would you rock the—one of these things is not like the other—talk?
J-Pop: Good point. Can I reserve you in advance for Rue’s The Talk? Keep in mind that I’ll panic for the next several years if you say no.
T-Diddy: Leaving now. Talk later.
Less than an hour later, Derek drops me off at my front door and I unlock it quickly, impatient to get inside and have some time to myself. Joey and I spent hours on that work call, putting out fires and planning for his trip. I wasn’t sure how long it would take, so Emerson’s mother agreed to pick up the boys up from school and keep them until he gets back from his meeting with the lawyer.
When I knew I could come home early, I took the opportunity without letting anyone know I was free. I feel guilty about it, but on the other hand, I haven’t been able to catch my breath for close to two weeks now.
And I really need to catch my breath.
Not because of the boys. They’re absolutely wonderful. Barry reminds me of a younger Joey, which is really all that needs to be said. He’s a caretaker. A nurturer. Full of love and tender feelings. His older brother, Langston, is amazingly intuitive and attentive. Almost too observant at times.
For example, he notices almost before I do if I need to be off my feet or adjust my prosthesis. He’s fascinated by it from a purely mechanical prospective, so it doesn’t make me uncomfortable at all. I’m almost positive he’s a genius, and he’ll grow up to do something innovative in the medical cybernetics industry. Or build a robot army that could kill us all. It’s too soon to tell.
I’m already in love with both of them.
We hung Christmas lights a few days ago, and I got the best pictures of all of them together, tangled up in wires and bulbs.
It doesn’t seem fair to Emerson, to be honest. So far, I’m getting so much more out of our deal than he is. My mother even left a message today, thanking me for sending those pictures.
This is the first time she’s initiated contact since I moved.
Do I wish she’d done it without me having to conform to her version of femininity by getting married? Of course I do. But I’m not expecting a holiday miracle. All I need is a chance to reconnect. To keep my promise.
I wanted to call and let Emerson know as soon as it happened, but I wasn’t sure he would appreciate the interruption. Or if our relationship was even there yet.
Thinking about him is one of the reasons I came home early today. He’s why I need to catch my breath. I can’t get the man out of my mind.
When I’m sorting through client questionnaires, I think of Emerson’s lips. When I’m scanning status updates and reworking managerial schedules, I’m thinking of that time I walked into the garage and saw him lifting weights, his shirt off and his muscular body covered in sweat.
I think about that all the time.
And then there are our evenings watching television in the master bedroom so we won’t disturb the boys.
I set down my keys and take off my jacket, my cheeks warm as I wander toward my bedroom. Other than Joey and my brothers, no man has ever seen me without my prosthesis before. But that first night, Emerson suggested I make myself more comfortable, staring at my legs so I couldn’t mistake what he was referring to.
I kept my stump covered with my sock and a throw blanket, but I still felt naked. By the third night, I’d almost forgotten all about it, because of the other things Emerson was doing.
First, he was only holding my hand. Caressing it through an entire episode. Then he rubbed my shoulders. My arms. Every night he found new ways to touch me. Always wearing less and less. Sweatpants. Shorts. Sweater. Tank top.
It’s like the slowest strip tease in the universe, and it’s starting to get to me.
I think he’s been trying to ease me into our relationship. Make me more comfortable around him. It might have worked, but then last night happened.