My Killer Vacation

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.

Taylor seems to have that realization at the same time I do and we start to walk faster to where we parked her car, five blocks away in one of the municipal lots. We’ve only made it about a block when there’s a roll of thunder overhead and rain starts to fall. Light at first, but slowly graduating into a downpour.

“Oh boy. No wonder we were the only two people in the shop,” Taylor says, letting go of my hand in favor of shielding her cone from the falling condensation. “Should we make a run for the car?”

“With a head injury? No.”

“You know what else is bad for a head injury? Being shouted at.”

Down the side street, I see the entrance to a Catholic church. Settling my hand on the small of her back, I guide her in that direction. “I’m sorry.”

She does a double take and almost slips on the rain-slicked sidewalk. “Oh, honey! You apologized!”

Honey?

A thousand pinwheels start spinning in my stomach at the same time.

“Don’t get used to it,” I mutter, trying very hard to stick to the mission of getting Taylor out of the bad weather, before she gets sick and has an almost-concussion. Not very easy to accomplish when she’s grinning at me and rapidly turning into what looks like the winner of a wet T-shirt contest. “We’ll wait out the downpour in here.”

She sizes up the heavy wooden door. “You think it’s open?”

“They’re always open.”

“Oh.” I usher her into a dark vestibule. There is a dim glow coming from the church nave but a quick sweep of the place determines no one is inside. When I return to the vestibule, Taylor is leaned up against the stone wall adjacent to the door, licking her ice cream in the shadows. The heavy, outside rain echoes in the small space, no signs of lightening up. It’s like we’ve walked into a different world. Just the two of us.

You need to stop getting carried away before it’s too late.

“Let me try a bite of that,” she says, distracting me from that troubling thought. Flirty. Is she being flirty or am I imagining it? “And you can try a bite of mine.”

For a moment, I interpret that suggestion as sexual. At least until I remember the ice cream cone in my hands. Approaching her, I hold the cookie dough to her mouth, my balls tugging when she licks it, then sinks her teeth in, leaving a lady-sized bite behind. “Mmm.” She winces. “It’s good, but too rich for more than one bite.”

“Lightweight.”

She laughs, low and musical. “Your turn,” she murmurs, lifting her ice cream to my mouth. “How do you know Catholic churches are always open? Were you raised Catholic?”

I nod, taking such a big bite of her butterscotch ice cream that she gasps. “Yeah, that was mostly down to my mother. She dragged us every Sunday. Made us wear shirts with collars and summarize the homily afterward. If she suspected we weren’t listening during mass, we didn’t get to play baseball with our friends afterward.”

“Your mom sounds like a badass.”