Page 10 of Forbidden Dreams
“She wants my dick,” he replies without even thinking about it.
“You two are ridiculous.” I shake my head as they both give me the same look. “Okay, well…” I look at both of them. “The last thing I know she wants is my dick, and even if she did, my dick isn’t interested in her.” I swear I can hear said dick laugh at me. “Now if you’ll both excuse me, I’m going to get the fuck out of here.” I look and see it’s almost four o’clock. “Have a good night.” I don’t bother looking back at her when I hear her laughing at my hasty exit, knowing I left because I wasn’t interested in continuing the conversation with her.
I’m walking out of the back of the distillery when my phone chirps with a text. Looking down, I see it’s from Taylor, a woman who I’ve been hooking up with for the last five years. She works in and out of town. We’ve never been exclusive, but over the years, she’s the only one who has stuck around for more than a couple of nights.
Taylor: Hey there, stranger. When can I see you?
Meaning, when can I see your dick? I put the phone in my back pocket, waiting to text her later when I’m home. I pull up into my driveway and see the glass pie plate on my seat. I wonder if I should return it now or just wait for her to be out and leave it at her door. I look over and see the kid standing in the middle of the side lawn, throwing a ball up in the air, and then watching it fall to the ground as he tries to catch it.
I get out of the truck, and I’m about to head into the house when I see him do it again. Then, I hear in frustration, “Oh my God.” My feet are moving while my brain tells me that I should go inside and get back to Taylor.
“Hey,” I say when I get close enough to him, after he’s tossed the ball in the air again and missed it yet again. “You want to play catch?” I don’t even believe the words coming out of my mouth.
The boy just stares up at me, his face mimicking my own thoughts, like, have you lost your damn mind? “You want to play catch with me?” The way he asks the question is like it’s unfathomable to him.
“Yeah,” I reply, totally out of my comfort zone. I should not be playing catch with a kid whose father I hate. I should be inside my house calling Taylor and making plans with her.
“I don’t know how to play catch.” He speaks the words softly as if I’m going to be disappointed.
“What do you mean, you don’t know how to play catch?” I ask. “You have a glove and a ball.”
“Yeah, but Mom bought it for me,” he admits. My insides burn, and I’m not ready to admit to anyone why that is.
“Okay.” I bend to pick up the ball. “First thing is, your glove has to be open to receive the ball.” I hold up the ball, go behind him, show him how to have the glove open, and then toss the ball in the air a little and move his hand out to catch the ball in the air. “See?” I say when it plops in his glove. “Now, you do it,” I urge, walking in front of him and then tossing him the ball. He closes his eyes, making me laugh as he tries to catch it but misses.
“You can’t be afraid of the ball. The glove protects you,” I tell him, and he nods. It takes about fifteen tries for him to finally catch the ball. The smile on his face is one I don’t think I will ever forget. It’s filled with amazement that it actually happened and then pride that he did it.
“I did it!” he cheers, tossing me the ball. “Do it again.” He catches the next six out of ten before the front door opens, and she comes outside. Her hands go over her eyes to shield herself from the sun as she calls his name.
“Wyatt.” She stops when she sees me. “Dinner is ready.” Her voice is not like it was this morning at the bar. No, it’s more in the tone of when Winston comes to smash at her door. I’m close enough to see that her eyes are red, and she looks like she’s been crying, but wants to hide it.
I walk with him to her. “Momma,” he chirps, his voice animated, “the neighbor showed me how to play catch.” He walks up the steps, and she smiles at him, but it’s not really a smile.
“That’s great. Say thank you to Mr. Thatcher, and go wash your hands,” she states, and he turns around.
“Thank you, Mr. Thatcher,” he says before rushing into the house, my eyes never leaving her.
“Are you okay?” I ask, and she turns from watching her son walk into the house back to me.
“I’m fine,” she assures me. “Thanks for teaching him that,” she mumbles before walking back into the house and shutting the door behind her.
I wait a couple of seconds before turning on my heel and walking back over to my house. My sister’s words suddenly play in my head.
“She took business classes and accounting.”
“Was she looking for office work?”
“Heard that she had to move again.”
“Even though Winston has been fucking his way through the town, even while married. He’s been giving her a hard time since she finally left him.”
The words keep spinning around and around in my head like a record. I stop at my truck to look back at the house. The door is closed, but all the windows are open. I put my hands on my hips, looking at my truck, then my house, then back at her house before I make a decision. I open the passenger door to my truck and grab the plate before storming back over to her house. I should think about this before I do it, but instead, my feet are walking up the steps. I go to the door and pick my hand up to knock on the door.
Not pounding on it like her dickhead ex, knocking like a normal human would. I wait a couple of minutes, enough time to turn around and head back home. Instead, I knock again impatiently, and the sound of footsteps comes closer to the door. It opens, and I see her face is still the same. Her eyes red and puffy, the tip of her nose red. “Here,” I say, handing her back the baking dish.
“Thank you,” she mumbles, and she’s about to close the door when my voice stops her.
“Be at the bar tomorrow morning.” She gasps at my words. “Ten should be good.” Her mouth hangs open and I don’t wait for her to reply, instead I turn and jog down her steps and walk to my house. Pulling out my phone, I see the text from Taylor still there but I ignore it and pull up Autumn’s name.