I’m pretty confident we’re going to rock the whole parenting thing someday.
The timer on the oven chimes, so I check on the chicken Piccata and Rhett gets the door. A second later, I hear Bostyn’s sing-song voice and the loud click of her heels across the brick-tiled foyer.
We moved to a nice house in a Philly suburb surrounded by a privacy fence and dozens of antique oaks, soaring evergreens, and weeping willows. The house reminds me of a small-scale castle, cozy and historic with stone galore. There’s a small pool in the back yard that gets plenty of use when it’s warm, a little writing cottage that’s free from pesky little distractions like the Internet, and a sexy husband who wants to jump my bones when he hasn’t got anything better to do.
“Hey, girl,” Bostyn gives me a hug from behind as I finish placing the dish on the stovetop.
“Bostyn!” I spin, giving her a warm hug. She still lives in the city these days, and I still don’t see her nearly enough.
“Smells good,” she says, peering over my shoulder.
Rhett carries her overnight bag upstairs. She’s staying in one of the guestrooms tonight, across the hall from Locke and Joa.
The entrance to the garage swings open a moment later. Joa toddles in first, followed by Locke with an armful of luggage and blankets and a stuffed elephant tucked under his left arm.
“Come in, come in,” I say.
“Hey, guys,” he says, gaze moving to Bostyn.
“What’s up?” she says, though you could cut the tension with a knife.
To say they can’t stand each other would be an understatement. The few short times these two have been in each other’s company have been a fire and ice extravaganza. I’m hoping that tonight, with Joa present, they’ll keep their insult hurling to a minimum.
When Rhett returns, he gives his brother a side hug. By the time we’re all settled and gathered around the table, Locke’s rambling on about his newest app.
“So, yeah,” he says. “This one lets you rate your dates. Kind of like how you can rate your Uber driver?”
Bostyn makes a face. “That’s disgusting.”
“No, it’s not. Wouldn’t you want to know if you were about to go on a date with some guy who ghosted the girl before you?” he asks.
“Yeah, but still. It’s unethical. What if people lie about you?” she asks.
“The reviews aren’t anonymous. If you want to leave a review, you have to post your photo and real name, which has to be verified.” He slices his chicken and places a few bites on Joa’s plate.
“Then nobody will leave any reviews,” Bostyn says.
“You’re not understanding. This could be a very good thing. People helping people find love,” he says. “Maybe you go on a date with someone who’s not your type but you know he’d be perfect for someone else. You could say you enjoyed your time together, but he’s not the one. Would be perfect for someone who appreciates the outdoors. An adrenaline junkie. A Steelers enthusiast. Whatever.”
Bostyn reaches for her wine. “I don’t know. Some people are jerks.”
“Yeah,” he says. “True. Anyway, it’s worth a shot. Have to innovate to stay ahead.”
“Locke just sold his fifth app recently,” I chime in.
“Oh, yeah?” Bostyn glances across the table at him. “Good for you. Another dating app?”
“Nope. Parenting app,” he says.
Her gaze softens. She so wants to keep hating on him, but I see her resolve weakening by the second. He’s really come a long way, and I hope someday she can give him another chance. Two people who fight like cats and dogs have got to be dynamite in bed.
And she needs that. She needs dynamite. Her last few boyfriends we nicknamed Bashful, Grumpy, and Dopey for obvious reasons.
For a dating advice columnist, she has the worst taste in men. I wish she’d just hand it over to me because I’m fairly confident I know how to pick them, as evidenced by the crème de la crème of husbands sitting across from me right now looking like he’s two seconds from carrying me upstairs and having his way with me despite the fact that we have company.
He always looks at me like that, and I hope he always does.
Locke tends to Joa, and I catch Bostyn watching, though I can’t tell what she’s thinking. I’ll definitely ask her later.
We finish dinner, clean up, and head outside to sit by the fire pit. Joa runs up to Bostyn, her arms outstretched, and Bostyn hesitates at first, as if she isn’t sure if it’s okay to pick her up.
Joa climbs up Bostyn’s legs, then turns around, settling in her lap. We laugh.
“Looks like you made a new friend,” Locke says to Bostyn. “She doesn’t usually like people she doesn’t know.”
Joa yawns, leaning back and reaching her hand up Bostyn’s arm until her fingers wrap around a long blonde tendril. Within minutes she’s out, and I see something softer in Bostyn’s eyes. A tenderness that wasn’t there before.
“How can she be yours, Locke?” Bostyn teases. “She’s so sweet. Should I carry her up to her bed?”
“Her crib is in the first guest room at the top of the stairs,” Rhett says.
Bostyn rises, Locke accompanies them, and we watch like hawks.
The second they’re gone, I toss Rhett a look.
“It’s happening,” I say, slicking my hands together like an evil genius.
Rhett smirks. “It’s not like you did anything. That was all Joa.”
“True,” I say.
When they come back, it’s quiet save for the pop and crackle of the burning logs in the pit.
“So,” I say, because I have to fill the awkward silence with something. “You two ever think about maybe going on a date sometime?”
Locke and Bostyn exchange looks, each of them protesting, their excuses layered on top of one another.
“Come on. You’re killing us here!” I say. “You two would be amazing together.”
“I could never date a girl who thinks she wrote the book on relationships all because she got her own radio show,” Locke says.
“Um. It’s a Sirius XM radio show,” Bostyn says. “And it’s kind of a big deal. I don’t think they’d slap a five-year, seven-figure contract in my lap if they didn’t think I knew a thing or two about dating.”
“Bostyn, when you fly to LA to do your show once a week, do they make you check your ego at the gate or can you stow it in the overhead bins with your carryon?” Locke asks.
Her face pinches. “You want to talk about ego?”
“Here we go,” Rhett mumbles under his breath. “Ayla, you want to head in? Let these two overachievers duke it out over who’s packing the biggest ego?”
“Gladly.” I rise, following my husband. “Night, guys.”
They ignore us, going at it and talking over one another, making digs and throwing lexicon punches.
We head inside to the family room, cuddling on the sofa, and I spin my gold wedding band around my ring finger. The date we met is inscribed on the inside, exactly the way it was in my book. He smells like fabric softener and cologne and I slip my hand inside his, draping his arm around me. I let him have the remote because I’m not in the mood to watch TV tonight. I just want to watch him.