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study in edgy masculinity. Not to mention, he does this jaw tick thing, like he’s clenching his molars, biting back his feelings.
are as different as apple pie and orange
juice.
I liken myself to Queen Elizabeth I. A rather grandiose comparison,
the poster-woman for I-don’t-need-a-man to rule my queendom.
Their love is swoon-worthy, and I can only hope to have a spoonful of something similar one day.
erasing the kiss Ford just gave me that stole my breath but pierced my heart.
“Thank God” by Kane Brown, a duet with his wife, Katelyn. As we sing about thanking God for that person in our life, about hands fitting together, and the gratitude of love, Sebastian and Enya dance in their own little bubble, seeing only each other.
Sometimes mothers die, and good dads turn bad. Sometimes you’re the only one left for six siblings. Sometimes you lose the love of your life to someone else. And all you can do, as Stone would say, is pick up the pieces. Make a mosaic. Repurpose what remains.
“Disappointed I won’t be able to spoon you?” Ford teases. However, my response is a bit more serious. “I’m more of a knife and fork girl.”
“You know, to signal a meal is finished, you slide the knife between the fork tines. That’s how I like to sleep. Face to face, bodies entangled.” I didn’t need to be cradled. I wanted to be cuddled. I wanted to inhale the scent of my partner and feel his heart pulse beneath my hands on his chest.
had no doubt she’d be a handful, both in and out of bed, but I wanted her quirkiness and the quack.
“You aren’t in trouble, Winnie. You’re learning. And as long as you learn a lesson, there’s no trouble. Understand?”
“I wanted a lucky duck, too, Daddy. So I made myself one. It’s romance, right? I’m giving it to me because I love me.” Fuck. My. Heart.
Ford is looking at me like I lift the sun and sprinkle the night sky with stars.
Because loving someone eventually can lead to a few punctures, if not an entire break.
In baseball, you don’t have time to think. You react on instinct. Overthinking leads to missed opportunities. Underestimating leads to injury.
“I’m going to hold you all night. Spoons. Knives and forks. Whatever utensil you want to call it. You’ll be mine. And in my arms.”
I should apologize for what I said, but how many times can you tell a woman you are sorry for being an idiot before she accepts you really are stupid.
she’s still vulnerable, but she’ll learn. My feet are firmly planted. My stance solid. She’s the swing I’m not going to miss taking.
dipping my fingers between hers. Forking, she calls it.
