She nods. “Okay, I’m following, and if you don’t own Wilde in your timeline, it means poor Other Kiersten is paying for facial moisturizer. I can get behind this reason. Are there more?”
The rest of it I can’t quite put a finger on.
“I just wake up so happy. I caught myself skipping yesterday, Kierst. You and I both know we Wildes do not skip.”
She thinks before saying, “Well, I’m happy you’re happy.”
I can see in her eyes that there’s a caveat to that statement. “But?”
“But I want you to hold off on making a final decision for a bit.”
I don’t say anything, but my face must reveal that I am far from in love with her statement.
She reaches for my hand and squeezes. “Everything is shiny and happy and wonderful when all you’re doing is fucking. But eventually, you get tired of banging like bunnies and reality checks in.”
“Kiersten!”
She waves me off. “Just humor me and make sure it’s absolutely what you want. Rash decisions can lead to hasty weddings and suddenly you wake up one morning with three kids and you don’t know who you are.”
A silence settles over the van.
“Um, are we still talking about me here?”
My sister blinks twice, then shakes her head. “Of course we are. But that reminds me. Can you babysit tomorrow night? I’m in a bit of a bind. Trent’s away fishing for the weekend and my usual sitter has a night class.”
I know without checking that my calendar is free. “Moms Gone Wild night?”
“You haven’t partied until you’ve partied with the PTA,” she replies with perfect deadpan.
“Yeah. Sure. Your kids are into movies, right? Saw III is new on Netflix.”
She glares at me.
“That was a joke. You’re not the only comedian in the family.”
Her scowl deepens. “Yes, but the difference is that I’m actually funny.”
Our conversation pauses as a group of women in bright-colored lululemon gear passes our car on the way to the path.
“Are we gonna do this?” I nod at the women, who are walking twice as fast as Kierst and I get up to on a good day.
Kierst eyes the doughnut box. “If you don’t go home, it won’t accidentally cause a rift in the universe or anything, right?”
I have to think for a moment.
“I’m honestly not entirely sure?”
She swears under her breath, leaving me lost in this conversation.
“What’s wrong?”
She picks up the box of doughnuts. “I was going to skip the walk and eat this entire box, and now I can’t.”
I am not even kind of following. “Why not?”
“Well, if you’re sticking around, I’ll have to live with the consequences. Sugar goes right to my ass.”
We compromise and each eat one full doughnut, then split a second one with the promise that we’ll walk an additional kilometer than the five we have planned.
We stop after three.
Blaming the ominous-looking thunderclouds rolling in from the east and the grande oat lattes that accompanied this morning’s doughnuts, we pile back into the minivan and drive to my place so we can pee.
“Dibs on the bathroom,” I call as we pull up to the sidewalk.
Kiersten hits the locks as I try to open my door. “Bathroom etiquette always defers to the person who has squeezed the most humans out of their vajay.”
I manually flip the lock and push the door open. “If I run, you won’t be able to catch me without peeing yourself.”
I race up the walkway and through the gate and get ready to leap the steps before I’m forced to skid to a stop to avoid the obstacle in my path.
I hear Kiersten’s huffing breaths before she turns the corner, also stopping to stare. “I take it all back. Stay here. Marry that man. Lock him down. You’ve found yourself a keeper.”
It’s only a small mason jar filled with wildflowers. And judging by the heather, honeysuckle, and cornflowers—the same variety that grows down near the water—the flowers are handpicked. But I know for a fact that Daxon McGuire has never, ever in his thirty-one years sent a woman flowers, except for my Aunt Livi last year when she was in the hospital getting her hip replaced. He made a huge deal when he brought her the also-handpicked bouquet, telling her that his mom was a gardener who taught him the meaning of every flower and that the act of giving them wasn’t to be tossed around lightly. Aunt Livi got anemones, buttercups, and irises for protection, humility, and wisdom.
I reach for my phone and search. According to Google and the Farmers’ Almanac, Dax has sent me admiration, devoted affection, and be gentle with me.
“Trent gave me flowers once.” My sister picks up the jar and inhales deeply. “He was still wooing me. Showed up for a date with a grocery store bouquet, and I fell head over heels in love.” She hands me the jar. “This year, for our eleventh wedding anniversary, he bought me a steam mop. Believe me when I say, enjoy this while it lasts.”
I take the flowers inside and set them on the counter. With the flowers and the late-morning sun streaming in through the window, it almost looks cheery in my little space. Kiersten remembers her quest for the bathroom, giving me a few precious moments to read the note carefully tucked between two stems.
It’s written on notebook paper in blue Bic pen ink and Dax’s nearly illegible handwriting.
This is me attempting to do things right. Pick you up at seven—Dax.
Holy shit. I grip the counter as my legs momentarily forget how to function. My stomach feels like it’s ballooned up into my chest. Like it’s filled with happiness and hope. I’ve never, ever felt this way in my entire life.
A few moments later, the bathroom door opens, and a relieved-looking Kiersten emerges.
“So, where’s he taking you on this big date tonight?”
I hold up my hands. “I have absolutely no idea.”
She grabs her purse from where she threw it on the counter and pulls something from her wallet.
“Beautiful, sweet boy, isn’t he?” It’s a picture of Riley. His school photo from last year.
She reaches into her purse again and presses something into my palm. “I don’t care how sexy he looks in those tight jeans of his. Never trust the pullout method.”
Chapter 16
There’s a soft knock on my door at exactly 6:58. It stirs the swarm of butterflies that have taken up residence in my stomach. I open it to find Dax, standing in a pair of black jeans and a different white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up just enough to expose the bottom of his tattoo on his inner left arm—a clock face. I used to think it was edgy, but now it’s an ironic reminder that I’m up against my own ticking clock.
“You look beautiful.” Dax ducks his head and steps into my kitchen, where I have to hold myself back from pouncing. I’m almost afraid to kiss him because kissing will lead to groping, groping to grinding, then, before we know it, we’ll be naked on the linoleum floor, and that’s not what tonight is about. Instead, I press up onto my toes and kiss his stubbled cheek. He smells exactly like he’s supposed to—Irish Spring soap and the faintest trace of aftershave.