Page 62 of Do You Take This Man

RJ:They must like you too much.

Lear:That’s probably the issue.

RJ:Maybe you should tell them to smile more.

The dots bounced as I settled into my new work space, laptop on my knees and food next to me. I wrangled my suitcase into a desk of sorts and ignored the man who’d stolen my seat watching me curiously.

Lear:I’ll try that.

Lear:I do feel bad that I told you to smile more. You should have slapped me.

RJ:I wanted to.

Lear:What stopped you?

RJ:I was on the ground and you were standing over me. I couldn’t reach your face.

Lear:I did offer to help you up, but you could have kicked me in the shin.

RJ:I should have kicked you in the balls. I’ll keep it in mind for next time I see you.

Lear:Kinky. I’m not usually into that, but I’ll try it. My safe word is Motownphilly.

I settled against the wall, giving up on returning to work for a few minutes.

RJ:You think you’re so funny.

Lear:I am funny. It’s one of many things you like about me.

I did like him. Along the way, he’d stopped getting under my skin and wormed his way into my head.

RJ:Sometimes. Where are you now, anyway? Still at the wedding?

Lear:Home. You?

I took a quick video, scanning the terminal and ending on my face.

Lear:Where are you going?

RJ:Chicago, if my flight ever takes off.

Lear:What’s in Chicago?

He didn’t know I was from Illinois. There was a lot we didn’t know about each other, and something about that was comforting, safe. Normal, instead of whatever I’d been feeling since he’d asked me to dance after that kid grabbed my ass. The dance was nice. Before the dance was... weird. Nice. Weird. I still couldn’t decide, because it felt like we’d said things we’d never actually uttered. Things I hadn’t said to anyone.

RJ:My friend’s bridal shower.

Lear:You just can’t stay away from weddings. Here I thought it was me.

RJ:I can stay away from you.

Lear:No, you can’t. I’m the best you ever had.

RJ:Cocky much?

He replied with an eggplant emoji and I rolled my eyes, but the phone rang and his name flashed on my screen before I could answer.

“Tell me I’m wrong.” His voice was rumbly in a relaxed, delicious way. I imagined him spread out on the couch, shirt tossed aside, sweatpants riding low on his hips. “I want to hear you say I’m wrong.”