“Guess we won’t be needing this lock,” Easton had said.
I sighed. “Guess not. That fucking sucks.”
But we didn’t need a lock to symbolize our love. We were the real deal. The forever kind.
After taking a picture with the water in the background, we decided to walk the streets toward the church. We were getting hungry and had found a bakery with sandwiches. That was also where we had our first taste of French pastries, and I was hooked. The bakery was called Paul or Boulangeries Paul which translated to Bakeries Paul (Paul’s Bakery).
We had waited in line, everyone speaking French and the labels of each item in French as well. I stared at the case and pointed to a sandwich I thought was ham. Turned out it was ham. Except it was more. So much more.
Paul introduced me to a ham and butter sandwich.
“I don’t know what I’m eating, but it’s fucking good,” I said with a mouth full.
“Mine too,” Easton agreed.
I examined the sandwich closer and said, “I’m pretty sure this is ham. And I think … butter.” The meat and spread were on a soft French baguette. There was nothing else, but it tasted like heaven.
Easton tilted his head to the side a little as though he were thinking. “The tag said Jambon Beurre. Maybe that’s ham and butter?”
I smiled. “We’re gonna be fluent in French soon.”
He had laughed. “I’m not so sure about that, but I am thinking I need to start making us ham and butter sandwiches. The way you moan when you take a bite,” Easton leaned closer and whispered, “makes my dick start to get hard.”
We quickly ate the rest of our lunch.
Our next stop was Notre-Dame. We didn’t only take pictures of the outside like the other two locations, we went in. First, we waited in line with other tourists for a half hour. Once we were in the famous medieval cathedral, it took my breath away. High arches and pillars, magnificent stained glass, candles throughout, sculptures, the Crown of Thorns, a fragment of the True Cross, one of the Holy Nails, Jesus Christ on a cross were all so … awe-inspiring.
We spent an hour or so walking around, examining the history. It was amazing. Absolutely breathtaking.
Afterward, we got back on the water-boat, chose not to get off to look at the Jardin des Plantes nor the Hotel de Ville and continued on to the Louvre. By the time we made it to the famous museum, it was closed. It didn’t stop us from getting pictures of the glass pyramid nor walking along the Tuileries Garden. We walked and walked, my feet aching, but we were in Paris, and this would more than likely be my only time in the City of Lights or what’s also known as the City of Love.
I’m not sure how long we walked, but we came upon the Place de la Concorde.
The sun had started to set. I knew we had been out all day, but I hadn’t realized how late it was. My sense of time was off because before I knew it, it would be eleven at night and we hadn’t eaten dinner.
“I’ve seen this place in a lot of movies,” I stated as we watched cars and scooters whiz by us in a giant loop that looked like a high school track but with cement and motor vehicles. In the center of the concord was the Fontaine des Fleuves or what I learned was the fountain of River Commerce and Navigation, and the fountain of Maritime Navigation. They both looked similar with cast iron mushroom-shaped cap above the central column with tritons and nereids under them.
“Tomorrow we can walk to the Arc de Triomphe,” Easton said, looking at the map we got from the Batobus. “It’s not far from here, and by looking at the map, it appears if we walked from here to the Arc or from the Eiffel Tower to the Arc, it would be the same distance.”
“Oh, so we’re close to where we started?”
“We are. Just in time to see the light show.”
Every night the Eiffel Tower would have a twinkle light show for five minutes at the top of each hour. I read in a magazine at the hotel that taking pictures of the tower at night was illegal and we could be fined. The reasoning was because they considered the evening lights to be a work of art and therefore were copyrighted.
That night it didn’t stop us from sneaking a few shots in and then finding a pizza place that was open late. We took the pizza back to our room, compared it to Paul’s, and wished we had brought back our new favorite sandwiches.
“Tell me all about it!” Nicole said as soon as she slid into the booth at the restaurant where we were having lunch.
Easton and I had been back from our honeymoon for only a day and first thing, Nicole texted to have lunch. As we waited for our lunch, I told Nicole about everything and showed her all the pictures on my phone.
“This ham and butter sandwich sounds effin’ delicious!”
“I know, right? It was amazing. I mean, butter makes everything better.” My mouth started to salivate at the mention of the sandwich. The pictures didn’t do it justice.
“What else did you eat?”
Apparently, she only cared about the food. “What are you, pregnant?” I laughed.
Nicole’s face fell at the mention and before I could apologize she said, “No. We aren’t going to try for a while. We’re enjoying the married life. What about you two? Did you get knocked up in Paris?”
“Pretty sure I didn’t. Still have my IUD.”
The waitress brought our food, and we dug in. “Are you going to try soon?” Nicole asked around a mouthful of salad.
I shrugged. “I’m not sure I’m ready yet. We got married less than two weeks ago.”
“People get pregnant on their honeymoons.”
This was true. I wasn’t sure if I was ready to have my own family yet, though. Sure we had Cheyenne, and she was like my daughter. She wasn’t a newborn, though, and I’d never had to take care of one. I was scared. I could handle kids two and older. I had with Bailee. But a newborn that cried all the time …
I just wasn’t sure I was ready.
“Well, I didn’t.” I laughed. “And neither did you. How long are you two planning on waiting?”
Nicole shrugged a shoulder. “Not sure. Doesn’t feel right, you know?”
I nodded. I knew exactly the feeling.
“Maybe we can both be pregnant together,” she continued with a smile. “We never thought we would practically get married at the same time and now look.”
So this was true, too. All best girlfriends talk about having double weddings and having babies at the same time when they are kids.
Maybe that was the path we were on …
“Are you going to hit a home run for me tonight?” Brooke asked, biting her lip.
I looked down wanting to be the one to bite it. Instead, I quickly looked back to her jade colored eyes. “Only one?”
Avery and I finally joined an adult co-ed softball team like we’d always talked about. Every Wednesday night we had a game except one bye week where we didn’t have one. Then there would be a night of playoffs. Our team was totally going to make them too.
Cheyenne was playing softball again, and her games were on Saturdays while practice was every day after school. I still helped Courtney’s dad coach as often as possible.
I had my beautiful wife and daughter, owned a successful bar, where I now only worked during the day, coached my baby girl in a sport we both loved, and played ball again with my best friend.
Life was good.
My life was complete.
“Well, for every one you hit, I’ll give you a kiss.”
I laughed because I was certain this was what high school kids said to each other. I stepped closer to the fence where she stood. “You better give me more than just kisses,” I whispered.
We both turned our attention to the field when there was a clink of a metal bat. Aubree, a girl on the team, hit a base hit through the shortstop and third baseman. Our team cheered from the dugout, and so did Nicole and a few others in the stands. The other team threw the ball back to the pitcher, and I winked at my wife before walking up to the batter’s box.
I should get a b
low job for every home run. Kisses …
This was my first time playing slow pitched softball and it was much different from fastball. For one, they pitched rainbow style where the ball arched up and down toward the batter. Two, it was a softball and not a baseball. And three, we played with women and had to alternate males and females in batting and fielding positions. For example: if a man pitched, a woman had to catch. If a guy played shortstop, a chick had to play third base. No one took any of that into account when we batted, though. Women got screaming balls at them all the time. Didn’t stop them from stopping them either.
I just wished my wife could play with us. She’d be a rock star. One day, when her body was fully healed and she felt up to it, she’d join our team. I knew she missed the game—I would in her position—but she never complained. She was always encouraging me, excited for game nights.
The yellow ball arched at me and to the right—ball. The second one did the same, and I smiled at the dude pitching. No one took walks, we were playing rainbow softball for Christ’s sake. The next pitch was the same, and I shook my head. I knew what this fucker was up to. If I walked, he would get a woman next. Not saying that women can’t hit—Aubree got a base hit before me—I was just more likely to hit it over the fence and then we would score more than just one. It would be three since Avery had hit a double two batters before me.
The dude started his wind up, and it felt as though the pitch was coming slower than it already was. He wanted to walk me. Instead, I grinned, took a step in toward the incoming ball and swung causing it to go to the opposite field. The ball soared over the outfielder’s head, and I ran. I ran fast because the ball wasn’t going to go over the fence like I’d hoped.
Avery scored.
Aubree scored.
And I was standing on third once the ball made it back to the infield.
We won the game six to one. I hit the triple, a home run, and a few doubles. Avery hit a home run, too, and once again it felt as though we were back in our prime.
Triples should count as Brooke sitting on my face.
Totally.
Working during the day and spending time with my family was heaven.
I truly had no idea what I was missing before that first night with Brooke on the cruise when she told me I basically needed to stop pawning Cheyenne off on my mother.
“I just think that if you have the choice to have a family again, you should,” Brooke had said.
Well, I had a family again, and I wasn’t going to fuck it up. I was bound and determined to take care of my girls.
“What’s for dinner?” Cheyenne asked the moment we walked in the door.
My stomach growled at the mention of food—and the scent of bacon in the air. “I’ll check with Brooke.” I came around the corner and into the kitchen. Brooke was bent over as she took something out of the oven. She turned her head and grinned at me as she set the cookie sheet on the stovetop.
“Bacon? For dinner?” I asked.
“I’m attempting to make your version of chicken carbonara. Wanted to treat my MVP.” She reached up and laced her arms around my neck before planting a gentle kiss to my lips.
“About that,” I said quietly. “I decided a home run equals a blow job, and a triple is you sitting on my face. Not necessarily in that order. Actually, wait. We should do what everything means in the order I make them every week.”
Brooke chuckled. “And a double is what?”
I stared past her at the refrigerator while thinking for a few seconds. “A walk equals a kiss. A base hit means I get to suck on your titties, and a double means we both use our hands.”
“So we don’t go all the way on game nights? Because last night—”
“Is dinner ready?” Cheyenne whined, coming into the kitchen and plopping down at the dining room table.
Brooke and I broke apart. “Let me get the pasta on, and it should be ready in about ten minutes.”
“I’m revising what I said. Seems that whoever created the bases knew what they were doing back in the day.”
Base hit equaled making out.
Double equaled me feeling her up.
Triple equaled oral for both of us.
And a home run was all the way.
I stepped closer to her as she chopped the bacon into pieces. Whispering into her ear so Cheyenne couldn’t hear I said, “A home run means we fuck. Triple—”
“I got it,” Brooke laughed.
“What do you mean “who created the bases””? Cheyenne asked.
I walked toward the dining room table. “The baseball Gods, of course, Peanut.”
Chey furrowed her brows. “Why are you talking about who created baseball?”
“You’ll want to know when you’re older,” Brooke said, chuckling.
No, no she would not!
Cheyenne’s phone buzzed with a text, and I glanced down at the screen before she picked it up. That was when I knew the baseball Gods were laughing at me.
“Who the fuck is Tucker?” I glared at Cheyenne.
“Easton!” Brooke scolded. “Your language.”
“Oh please, babe. You have a mouth on you, too. Cheyenne is used to it. Now—who the fuck is this boy? Is he the one you …” Oh Lord, I couldn’t finish the thought.
“He’s my friend!” Cheyenne yelled back.
“The one you kissed?” Brooke asked, finishing for me.
“No!” Cheyenne continued to yell. “That was Kirby.”
I couldn’t help it. I laughed. “Like the vacuum?”
Cheyenne frowned at me. “What?”
I shook my head because I didn’t want to continue my thought about how the boy that kissed my baby was named after a vacuum and liked to suck face.
Wait … I thought they just pecked?
I wasn’t going to ask and bring that shit up again.
Brooke slapped my shoulder. “Is Tucker your boyfriend?”
I glared at my wife. She rolled her eyes at me, and I felt as though I was about to have a heart attack. My skin was heating as if my blood was literally on fire inside my veins.
“Eww, no. I don’t have a boyfriend.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. She was still in the “eww” phase.
“Well,” she continued and my eyes widened, waiting for more words to come from her mouth, “I think he’s cute, but he’s mean to me.”
“Aw fuck,” I hissed, scooting my chair back and standing. I really didn’t even care about my language, especially given my two girls were determined to kill me.
Brooke sat in my place, and I went to finish dinner because I needed a distraction before I murdered this Tucker fucker. Then I laughed at myself. Tucker fucker. I was turning into Robert Fucking Frost and becoming a poet.
I was losing my mind.
“When boys are mean to you, that sometimes mean they like you,” I heard Brooke say.
“That doesn’t make sense,” Cheyenne replied.
Brooke gave a sarcastic laugh. “Boys don’t make sense. Look at your dad. He’s having a meltdown because a boy texted you.”
“Yeah, Dad!” Cheyenne called. “It’s just a text.”
I stopped stirring the cream sauce. “What does the text say, Cheyenne?” I barked.
She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Babe.” Brooke stood and walked toward me. “Just let it go. They’re kids.”
I blinked at her. “You have no idea what it’s like. Cheyenne’s my baby.”
The moment the words left my mouth, I regretted them.
Brooke stared at me for a beat, and the silence in the kitchen was unnerving. Ringing started in my ears, and I felt as though time was standing still. Her throat moved up and then back down as she took a long swallow. “You’re right.” Her words were barely a whisper and then she turned on her heel and walked out of the room.
“Baby,” I called after her and my legs started moving to follow her. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Why is she mad?”
Cheyenne asked.
I didn’t stop to answer her.
The bedroom door to our room was shut, and I opened it. Brooke was laying on her side of the bed, and I walked to stand next to her.
“I don’t want to talk to you.”
I crouched down beside her, brushing her chocolate colored hair from her face. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know Cheyenne’s not mine—”
“She is yours. You might not have given birth to her, but she sees you as her mother.”
Brooke sat up, tears running down her cheeks. “But you don’t.”
It was as if she slapped me. “What? Of course I do.”
“But you said—”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean? Because the way I heard it was because I don’t share her blood, I don’t care about her.”
I reached up and wiped the tears from her cheeks with my thumbs. Then I cupped her face. “I said what I did in the heat of the moment. Cheyenne is your daughter. I don’t care if you didn’t give birth to her. We’re a family.”
“But you think I don’t care some kid likes her.”
“When I said you didn’t understand because she was my baby, I meant it in the sense that she’s my little girl. Like I’m thinking I should go get a gun permit now.” I tried to smile to lighten the mood. It didn’t work.
“But you are right. Cheyenne isn’t mine.” Tears started to fall from her eyes again, soaking my hands. I didn’t move them. Instead, I leaned closer and kissed her lips, tasting the salty sheen.
“Cheyenne became yours the moment you told her you used to play softball.”
Brooke finally let out a small chuckle. “Not like that.”
“Do you think I care she doesn’t carry your blood?”
We stared at each other until she finally spoke. “No. I just wish …”
“You wish what?” I wiped her tears again, this time grabbing her hands in her lap instead of her face.
“I wish I had my own. I mean, I didn’t think I was ready—”
“Let’s do it.”
The Halo Series Boxed Set Page 68