Chelsea sits beside me on the couch, facing me, her legs tucked, her pretty feet curledÂ under her. Yesâ€”Chelsea has pretty feet, okay? I never knew feet could be prettyâ€”until I saw hers.
â€œSo . . . that talk I mentioned before? We should probably have that now, while we can.â€
I take a sip of my drink and nod. â€œYeahâ€”I wasnâ€™t at all hoping youâ€™d forget about it orÂ anything.â€
Her face slides into a grin. â€œFunny.â€
I look back at her, straight-faced. â€œIâ€™m a funny guy.â€
When she doesnâ€™t say anything for a few moments, I ask, â€œWhatâ€™s up?â€
Because now Iâ€™m actually getting concerned. My stomach tightens as I brace forÂ whateverâ€™s worrying herâ€”and before I even know what Iâ€™m up against, in my head Iâ€™m alreadyÂ planning all the ways Iâ€™ll take care of it. Because thatâ€™s what I doâ€”and Iâ€™m good at it.
But what she tells me next blows my fucking mind.
Two wordsâ€”ten thousand thoughts exploding in my head at once.
Iâ€™m a big guy, six-five, 225 pounds of muscle. Guys like me, our voices donâ€™t squeak.
But at this moment, mine comes damn close.
â€œLike . . . for an appointment?â€
Chelsea inhales deeply, then breathes out, â€œNo.â€