by Shey Stahl
We hide our feelings for the sake of an argument. Until the goddamn ranch goes bad.
My point?
Cason and me… we don’t leave the ranch out. There’s no need to worry with him. What you see is what you get. He doesn’t bullshit you, and if he says he’s going to do something, he does it. He’s easy. Literally. All I have to do is look in the general direction of his cock, and he’s pulling it out to see if I want some. Benefits of dating a twenty-four-year-old.
My second point?
Don’t wait for the ranch to be left out. Talk to them. Like Granny said, “If you can put their dick in your mouth, you can talk to them about what’s bothering you.” Don’t wait for them to get a girlfriend and stop paying your bills because then they die in a car accident, and you’ll never get your answer.
If I get to heaven and he tells me it’s because I didn’t suck his dick, I’m going to cunt punch him. And then apologize to Jesus for my behavior, because I’m a fucking lady.
Love isn’t holding someone back. It isn’t making them feel like they’re not good enough or holding their actions hostage. If you don’t know what I mean by that, I’m happy for you.
If you do, we have something in common. My entire relationship with Collin, I was afraid to believe I deserved better. And I hadn’t realized until after Collin, that parts of my heart and my unwillingness to be put back into that “girlfriend” or more category had everything to do with parts of my heart being off-limits.
It didn’t stop Cason from trying to steal it, one base at a time.
That night, as I’m getting the kids ready for bed, Cason calls me.
“I was traded,” he tells me, his voice distant, sad even.
“Really? Where to?” It’s the life of a baseball player. You didn’t dare set down roots anywhere because, at the drop of a hat, you could be traded and asked to report in another state the next day. For that reason, I still live in Phoenix because Tatum is in school, and Cason keeps an apartment in Anaheim. We’re there more than we’re in Phoenix some months, but we make it work and don’t go more than a week without seeing him either. It’s a rule we made early on, and we’ve kept with it.
Until today, when he gives me the word “traded.” I fear the twist our lives are about to take. Right now, we’re only five hours from him. What would happen if he’s traded to an east coast team?
Blowing out a breath, Cason pauses before laughing. “Diamondbacks.”
My heart literally jumps in my chest and I nearly drop Alston. “Seriously?”
“Yep. I’ll be home tonight.”
Looks like I’m shaving my legs.
EIGHT HOURS AND twenty-seven minutes later, Cason walks through the door of our home he’s rarely at these days but bought us after I had Alston. Both kids are asleep on the floor— underneath the Christmas tree— having waited up to see him but couldn’t make it.
“Honey, I’m home,” he says, walking through the door. He sets his bag down in the foyer, and I rush toward him, wrapping my arms around him.
I breathe him in, thankful to have him home with us. “Longest day of my life.”
“You’re telling me.” He breathes into the curve of my neck. When he pulls back, his eyes move to the Christmas tree in the living room and both kids sound asleep under it. “It’s August.”
“We celebrate Christmas multiple times a year here.”
“Well, this is worth celebrating.” He laughs, but I notice there’s something off about him. He looks… nervous? We haven’t seen each other in a couple weeks. Maybe that’s it? No, no. This is different. “I need to do something,” he says, pulling away. I stare at him and am met with those same beautiful blue eyes I saw in that coffee shop that day. “I can’t wait any longer.”
I know what he’s about to do. Something he wanted to do before Alston was born but didn’t because it was a rush to the World Series and everything that comes with being a professional baseball player. Our lives revolved around their schedule.
Regardless, something passes across his features—a moment of hesitation maybe—before he shakes his head. With a deep breath, he drops to one knee before me and holds up a ring. “Will you marry me?” With a strong jaw and hooded eyes, he waits. Juliet meet Romeo. Isn’t that how the Taylor Swift song goes?
Oh, whatever. He’s waiting on me.
My heart jackhammers its way through my rib cage. I let his question sink in, healing my heart.
He gazes at me through his long dark lashes, the heat in my chest intensifying. “Please?”
“It’s about time you asked,” I tease, yanking him up.
He slides the ring on my finger, and I open my mouth to say yes, but just as I begin to utter the words, my throat clogs with emotion. Here we are, standing in the foyer of a home we share together—when the dude’s not on the road—in the same spot my life was shattered three years ago. I intend on giving him a verbal yes answer and maybe sealing the deal in bed before the kids wake up, but Tatum must have heard his voice because I hear her squeal before I see her.
“Daddy!” she screams and runs into his arms.
Cason’s eyes meet mine, Tatum in one arm, Alston crawling into his other. “I loved being call Boy, but Daddy is so much better.”
I’m not crying. You’re crying!
As I stare at the ring on my finger with the man holding the girl who he showed what a dad could be like, and a woman that love still exists, I think about one thing. Well, two. I want him to knock me up again.
And… if you’re ever not sure, be with someone who loves you without chains. Don’t let them lock you up and hold you hostage. Unless you’re into that, then, have at it, girlfriend. But if you’re not, and you feel suffocated by what they think you should be like, don’t. Love is freedom, and you choose who you give it to.
I give my love to this guy who we now call daddy. Wink wink.
Seated on the couch with both kids on his lap, Cason's eyes find mine. “That’s a yes, right?”
I want to burst with laughter or tears. I’m not sure which one. So I lean in, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Only if you add one to the roster tonight,” I tease, wondering if he’s going to catch onto the meaning.
A ghost of a smile passes on his lips. “Bedtime, kids.”
The End
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HERE’S A SNEAK PEEK AT THE FIRST CHAPTER
(Don’t judge me. This could be you in ten years)
DO YOU SEE that half-naked guy sitting on the floor of his pantry eating Cheerios from the box? I know, hot right? Thank you. Thirty has treated me pretty well.
The bigger question to most of you might be why I’m on the floor in the pantry, half-naked, and eating Cheerios from the box, huh?
I’ll explain and maybe it’ll make more sense. Let’s go back about five minutes.
Okay, now, do you notice those two people on the floor? Yeah, they’re having sex. Trying to is more like it. Sex on a tile floor with limited space isn’t exactly easy. The movies lie.
“Jesus, Noah. That hurts.”
With a grunt, I look behind me at our tangled legs. “Then move your leg.”
“I can’t.” Kelly attempts to free her foot only to have it get stuck further. “It’s stuck in a basket.”
I kick the basket aside only to find there are five more beside it. It’s like one of those roadside farmer’s markets in here. “Why are there so many baskets in here?”
“Because it’s more organized that way. Our house is a constant mess. It’d be nice to keep one area clean.”
Now, this could be a snide remark against me. Probably is because I know I contribute to the mess sometimes, but I don’t want to think about that. Groaning, I attempt to change my position but have you ever
had sex in a pantry closet with a box of Cheerios in front of you? I thought yellow was supposed to be calming? Or distracting? Whatever.
“Ow, you’re pulling my hair!”
I slap my hand over my wife’s mouth. “Stop talking. I can’t concentrate.” I know, I know. I shouldn’t have been so rough, but hey, at least with my hand over her mouth I’m not pulling her hair anymore.
She’s not pleased with me though and I’m given a scowl I can feel underneath my palm. I’m very familiar with this look. It’s similar to the one I got last night when I was brushing my teeth and she stuck her head in the sink for God knows what reason, and I spat toothpaste in her hair.
You might be wondering at this point why we’re on the floor in the pantry. Or, if you’re really focused on the details and noticed the box of Cheerios on the floor, you’re curious why that is. Well, we have kids who don’t put shit back where it belongs.
Why we’re on the floor in the pantry… far more interesting concept there, and circles back around to those messy little hoodlums we made who don’t put anything back. You see, when you’ve been married for ten years, looking at the possibility of divorce, you find it hard to find the spark again. That means taking the opportunities you’re given. If that means fucking on the floor in the pantry because seeing your wife wearing ridiculously expensive Lululemon tights I told her not to buy (a story for another day) while doing dishes got you hard, and you’re actually able to talk her into doing it in the pantry, then you take the crumbs you’re given, literally.
There, you’re all caught up. I know you’re probably wondering about the divorce part, but that’s a story for another day, for now, back to the sex.
It’s looking like we might actually finish before the kids get up and I have to leave for work. Adjusting my knees, I try to adjust our position only to have my wife yelp and squirm away from me. “Holy shit, it’s huge!”
I glance down at her, smirking. “That’s what she said.”
“Not you, dumbass.” She slaps me in the face. Right across my cheek. “There’s a spider on your shoulder!” It doesn’t slip past me that she could have easily squished the spider instead of hitting me in the face, but whatever. The longer you’re married, the more you’ll understand why she chose to slap me.
“Where?” I scream like a little girl. Even I’m alarmed at the pitch of my voice and wonder if my balls have disappeared. I check. Nope. Still there and looking pretty goddamn blue.
Fun fact. I do not like spiders. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all man, but the sight of those creepy crawling black fuckers just freaks me the fuck out. I turn into something similar to someone who just got shot with a taser, all jerky and shit. It ain’t pretty.
In a matter of seconds, I’m on my feet, and accidentally kick my wife in the vag while trying to stomp a spider. After I box punch her, Kelly gasps and gives me the look. If you’re in a relationship, you know this look. It’s the one that slightly resembles her wanting to beat the shit out of me with a pillowcase full of rocks.
Just so we’re clear, I get this look daily, and while I end up killing the cock-blocking spider, this spectacular moment has also killed the mood. And so, all that insane shit I just shared with you, that explains why I’m sitting on the floor of the pantry eating Cheerios. By myself.
Now, you might be wondering how a good-looking man like me ended up with five kids and a wife. Or maybe you feel sorry for me because I haven’t had sex—other than a few minutes ago—in a month. Thirty. Two. Miserable. Days.
I’ve been counting.
“This fucking sucks,” I mutter, pushing the cereal away from myself.
The door to the pantry opens and Finley, our one-year-old, takes a drink of her milk and then spits it in my face. It’s her new thing. She thinks it’s hilarious. We’re working on it, but let’s face it, babies are assholes.
I fight the urge to grab her bottle and spit milk right back at her, and if you have kids, you know exactly what I’m talking about here. They can’t all be sweet all the time, and if anyone tells you their kid is perfect, they’re lying to you.
Wiping milk from my face with my hand, I glare at the baby. “You need to stop doing that.”
Like she’s going to listen to me. Pretty sure this kid came out thinking I was a nobody. With the nipple of her bottle now dangling from her lips, she smiles, as if she didn’t hear me. That’s another thing about babies. They have selective hearing. Don’t believe me? Say cookie and watch their face. Now, say no and look at the blank expression they give you.
Exactly my point, friends.
With the front of me soaked in milk, I drag myself from the floor and into the kitchen. And then I stare with wide eyes at the scene before me. Have you ever been in a kitchen right before kids leave for school? It’s like a prison yard and everyone is fighting over the last box of smokes. Only in this case, it happens to be the last of the Pop-Tarts. Don’t judge us. Yes, we let our kids eat Pop-Tarts on occasion.
Hazel, our five-year-old princess with horns—you’ll understand soon enough—she’s staring at me, disgusted as she eats peanut butter from the jar with her fingers. The neighbor’s cat is also on the counter licking the jar. “She spit on you again, didn’t she?”
Don’t let the brown curls down to her waist and bright blue eyes fool you. Hazel is to be feared. It’s always the cute ones that will kill you in your sleep. Last week, she put a pillow over my face at 4:00 a.m. and asked if I could breathe. And then later that day, she made me a piece of toast with jelly. Naturally, I made Kelly eat it because I thought for sure she was going to poison me. I’m kidding, I ate it. But it’s bizarre shit Hazel does that scares the shit out of me most days.
Reaching for a hand towel, I wipe the remainder of the milk from my face and move past the kids at the island. “Pretty much. Hazel, get that cat outside. He doesn’t belong on the counter.”
This does nothing to deter her. “He likes me better than his owner.”
“Doesn’t matter. He’s not ours,” I point out, glaring at the cat. “You can’t just steal him.”
She pets the orange tabby cat lovingly, with peanut butter hands. “I can if he likes me.”
There’s no sense in arguing with her. She gets the last word every time. Disgusted, I stare at my daughter who is now staring at her hands with orange cat hair stuck to the peanut butter. I swear to God, if she licks her fingers, I’ll throw up.
I wait, giving her that fatherly look that screams “don’t you dare.” Her eyes lift to mine, testing out the waters. I narrow mine.
Shrugging, she wipes them on her pants.
“Uh,” Oliver, my oldest son, stares at me. “Where’s your shirt?”
Oliver, he’s our secret keeper. You never know what this kid is thinking. And honestly, we probably don’t want to know. He’s a ten-year-old boy. More than likely it involves Fortnite and the Battle Royale. Or how funny farting on his sister’s head is to him.
I don’t give Oliver an answer as to where my shirt is, because it’s still in the pantry where I took it off earlier, and if I tell him that, it will only lead to more questions. He might be a secret keeper, but the kid asks too many questions as it is, and if you wait about two minutes, he’ll forget he asked one and move on.
Kelly walks back into the kitchen with Finley, the spitting baby on her hip, and rolls her eyes when she notices the milk on my chest. “Why do you let her do that to you? And put a shirt on.”
Look at the baby. Doesn’t she look all sweet and innocent on her mama’s hip drinking a bottle? Fuck that. Ever since that kid slid out of the vagina I rarely see anymore, she’s had it out for me, and it’s been my fear that this might have had something to do with Kelly and I having sex while she was pregnant with her. Did she know it was me who was ramming her in the head? Is that why she spits at me?
“Let her?” I stare at my wife like she put my dick in a blender. I love Kelly. I just don’t like her sometimes. Usually when she’s accusing me of being a
pussy, like now. “It’s not like I say, hey, Fin, fucking spit on me.”
“Daddy!” Hazel scolds, slapping her hand on my bare back with her peanut butter hands. “Bad word!”
My shoulders tense thinking about the peanut butter and cat hair on my back.
Kelly sighs, her mood written all over her face. I don’t know why she’s pissed off. It’s not like she has a constant hard-on she has to hide. Or peanut butter hair on her back. “Can you go change or whatever it is you’re going to do and take Oliver to school?”
Whatever it is I’m going to do? Ha. Fucking. Ha.
God, I’m kind of a dick today.
I want to say something sarcastic, but I don’t. I give up. I let it go. It’s what someone who fears confrontation does. More on that later, but I hate fighting. Goes back to my childhood you probably don’t want to know about.
Nodding, I step past my wife, who obviously hates my guts today.
Tripping over Sevi, our youngest boy on the floor, I make sure he’s okay. “Why are you on the floor eating?”
With his hand in a box of cereal, he stares up at me like I’m speaking some other kind of language to him. I probably am. Instead of answering me, he barks and shoves a handful in his mouth. Our three-year-old son thinks he’s a dog. I don’t mean, oh, cute, he’s going through a phase. I mean, fuck this shit, he thinks he’s a goddamn dog.
Sighing, I pet his mop of curly blond hair. I head upstairs, careful not to step on the nail gun I left out the other day. You’re probably thinking, who leaves out a nail gun with kids around? I do. Don’t worry, I took the battery out and hid it, just didn’t take the time to clean up the rest. Could be some passive-aggressive behavior on my part, which might be another reason Kelly is pissed at me. She tripped over it earlier.
It only gets worse from here. It’s in that stairway I’ve been replacing the risers on all weekend, where I catch a glimpse of a family portrait laying against the wall. Why’s it not hung on the wall? We’re remodeling this house we can barely afford and hanging pictures on the wall is probably the last “to do” on Kelly’s list, and I’m not allowed to hang pictures on the wall. She claims I hang them crooked. Whatever. I hang shit just fine. But it’s not the fact that it’s on the floor. It’s a little blonde girl in the photo that catches my eye.
