when she eats the hell out of s’mores with Stacy. It’s a little unnerving.)
Inara and I do all the things.
“He’s taking you on dates,” Stacy whispers so loudly that everyone can hear it from here to the next block.
My knee-jerk response is to shut her down—but I don’t. I don’t because the immediate reaction I feel is agreement. As far as my system is concerned, Inara and I are dating.
But Inara is leaving. You need to stop getting attached, asshole. Even if she wants to, she can’t stay. It’s not safe for her to stay.
Ultimately, developing any deeper feelings is only going to end up with me sitting in my boxers on my couch staring at a wall and moping like a sad sack for the rest of my life over a woman who I knew from the beginning wasn’t mine to keep and I should never have gotten close enough to grow feelings for.
Quit. Getting. Attached.
I keep hoping if I warn myself enough that it’ll click, and this—everything Inara and I are doing—will turn into simple fun, and it won’t end with me getting my heart shredded apart when she has to leave.
Yes, I’m aware I’m an idiot. Not even a hopeful one, because no part of me actually believes that what we have is going to end in anything other than me taking the equivalent of a fiery cannonball to the chest.
The door to my office is open. So unfortunately, what rips me out of my wallowing/personal therapy session is the fact that I can hear Stacy only too well, like I have some sort of inner-alarm for these things, when she confides to Inara, “...because my boyfriend’s backseat is super uncomfortable.”
I twitch so hard that my pen whips out of my hand and goes sailing across the room.
“Why is it uncomfortable for you?” Inara asks innocently. “Matthew’s transporter’s rear seat looks as plush and welcoming as his passenger and captain’s chair.”
“You’re cute,” Stacy chuckles. “‘Captain’s chair.’ The ah, ‘rear transporter seat’ is sort of cramped and the seat belts dig in when he—”
A growl is sticking hard to my throat, so it takes me two tries to cough, “Stacy!”
Her pretty blonde-highlighted head slowly peeps into my doorway. “You bellowed, Mr. Crabby?”
“Kid, stay out of your boyfriend’s back fucking seat,” I order.
All the hesitancy melts from her, and suddenly I’ve got a spunky teenager challenging me with her perfectly manicured hands planted on her hips. “My mom’s dating again, Matt.”
“Good for her,” I bite—but I’m confused. What does her mom dating have anything to do with Stacy doing adult shit in the back of her kid-boyfriend’s shitty little Honda Civic?
Stacy’s eyes widen, her expertly waxed brows going up—one might believe she looks surprised, but that’s for the uninitiated in battling with women. Wise men with mothers and sisters who have warrior spirits know this expression means imminent challenge.
“Yeah, it is. And what I’m saying is, there’s an opening for a dad position if your attempt to boss me around in my personal life means you want to step up to the plate. The day you date my mom, marry her, and sign my adoption papers is the day you’ll have the right to tell me what I can or can’t do with my boyfriend.”
She’s got me there.
But never go down without a fight. I rise from my chair, cross to where my pen landed, swipe it from the floor, all while taking a breather so that I sound like the coolest, most rational motherfucker in town when I order, “Go take care of the trash.”
This derails Stacy’s you-can’t-tell-me-what-to-do speech. “I just got my nails done!”
Girl’s got a point. She’d do it if I made her, but I know from growing up in a houseful of women how ticked a lady gets if her brand new nail job chips, gets scratched, or pops off. And taking out the trash isn’t in Stacy’s job description. She should be able to use her hard-earned money to keep her nails looking nice without having to fear that it’ll go to waste when she gets to work.
Sal is walking past my doorway, headed for the mini fridge in front, probably for a water since that’s where we keep them.
“Sal!” I call. Because I wasn’t just telling Stacy to do it to punish her. It really does need to be done. “Grab the trash.” After a second, I think to tack on, “Please.”
Having heard at least the last half of the argument, Sal gapes.