I actually feel Whitney’s gaze burning a hole in the side of my face when I spit out a laugh. “What?” I ask recoiling toward my window. “Oh, come on, you have to admit, that was funny.”
“It’s not funny! That woman hates me.”
“Hey,” I say, reaching across the car to tickle the back of her neck. That sour face of hers just isn’t sitting well with me. This is supposed to be a happy trip. “You let me handle Mrs. Wyler, okay?”
“I wish I could…my kid, remember?” She shoves my hand away, trying not to laugh. “Keep ’em on the wheel, sir.”
All jokes aside, I can’t wait for the day we can formally remedy this little situation. For the day I can officially call that kid my own. It’s not something I’ve brought up with Whitney yet, only because I’m still not so patiently waiting for enough time to lapse that she might not turn me down when I work up the nerve to ask her to be my wife. “Right,” I say, chewing on the inside of my cheek. “Well, I’ll accompany you to said meeting, and we can handle that witch together. How’s that?”
“Deal.”
After about a half-hour of idle chit-chat, the car falls silent. Whitney’s busy reading some romance book on her Kindle, and Prissy’s occupied playing games on her momma’s phone.
I switch the radio on to some good old-fashioned rock and roll and proceed to cruise, watching the mile markers tick on by.
“Pull over,” Whitney groans, folded at the waist with a hand clamped over her mouth.
I take the next exit, pulling onto the shoulder of a wooded area, where she promptly flings the door open and proceeds to empty the contents of her stomach.
“Are you okay?” I wish I could do more to look after her, but as it stands I’m presently hanging my head out the window, fighting the urge to lose my own lunch. The smell alone is enough to curdle my gut.
“Yeah,” she says, wiping her face with a Wet One she retrieved from the glove compartment. “Food must’ve stayed on my stomach.”
This is only the first of many pit stops. There are a few for Prissy to pee, but most are on account of Whitney’s newfound penchant for car sickness.
“I’m so sorry. I would’ve taken some motion sickness medicine, but I’ve never been on a long enough trip to know I needed it.”
“No worries, love. I just feel bad for you. You look awful.”
Her eyes widen. “Uhh…thanks?”
“You know what I mean.”
Our last stop is a gas station connected to a Wendy’s, where we feed Prissy dinner and get Whitney some sleeping medicine to hopefully knock her out for the remainder of the drive.
“Honeys, we’re here!” I chant to the two beauties sawing wood like they’re competing for a gold medal in some Olympic event for snorers. How anything so beautiful can produce such vile sounds is beyond me.
“Wow,” Priss says, opening her eyes and squeezing herself between the front seats to have a better look at the massive grizzly bear statues as tall as the roof. She perches herself on the center console to peer through the windshield. “Get up, Momma,” she says, shaking Whitney by the shoulders. “Look!”
Whit chokes on a snore before wiping her mouth with the back of a hand. “We’re here?” Poor thing’s still half asleep.
“We are. Let’s get inside so we can get some rest.” With our many stops, the eight-hour trip quickly grew to over ten, and I’m freaking exhausted.
After a late check-in, we head up to our room. I swear Prissy’s mouth hangs open the entire way as she drinks in every detail of her playground for the next few days. The décor is off the chain, the outdoors theme woven into every facet of the place.
But her reaction when she sees our room is the one I don’t think I’ll soon forget.
I might have splurged on one of the more expensive rooms, with a queen-sized bed and a set of bunks enclosed in this neat little manmade stone alcove.
“Are you kidding me?” The kid seems to have caught a second wind, zipping around the room and checking out every last detail.
I’m so focused on Prissy’s reactions that I fail to notice how pale Whitney has become.
“All right, Priss. Your momma’s not feeling well, and it’s late. I know you’re excited, but it’s time for bed, okay?”
“Fine,” she sulks, trudging to the bathroom with her bag.
“Are you okay?” I plop down beside her on the couch, resting a hand on her knee.
“Yeah,” Whitney says, yawning. “Just still really tired from that sleeping pill.”
“Go on to bed,” I tell her. “I’ll take the couch.”
“Y’all can stop doing that,” Prissy barks, ambling out of the bathroom in her mummy Halloween pajamas, her face screwed up in annoyance. “You can sleep in the same bed. I know y’all do when I’m not there.”
Whitney snorts, grabbing her daughter by the arm and hauling her into her lap for a cuddle. “I love you, brat.” She nuzzles her face into Prissy’s neck.
“I love you too…but you still don’t have to treat me like a baby.”
“You’re right, we do sleep in the same bed when you aren’t there,” her mother confirms, shocking me speechless. “I just didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
Quiet as a mouse, I sit here, a silent spectator, wondering how this’ll play out. I fully expected Whitney to deny, deny, deny. But I really shouldn’t be all that surprised by the honesty in her response. She has a respect for her daughter that I’ve come to admire. Whitney and her parents don’t talk down to her or treat her like any less of a person just because she’s little. It’s made Prissy a confident and very intelligent child, albeit sometimes a little too big for her britches.
Prissy gives an exaggerated shrug. “Why would I be uncomfortable? Y’all the ones with each other’s feet in your back. I have two whole beds to myself.”
“I apologize for treating you like a baby, Miss Priss.” Whit peppers her cheeks with kisses. “Can you ever forgive me?”
“Just don’t let it happen again.” Prissy squirms in her mother’s lap, trying to fight her off.
“Yes, ma’am.” With a giggle, she sends her off to bed with a playful swat to the behind.
“So…?” I look to Whitney, widening my eyes in question, not wanting to assume anything.
“We can share the bed.”
Yes!
By the time we’ve gotten ourselves ready and climbed in between the sheets, Prissy is already snoring the roof in.
“This is weird,” I say, lying flat on my back, staring up at the ceiling with Whitney beside me, but…not. At least a foot separates us. It’s more torturous than having her across the room. At this distance I can smell her perfume and feel the heat her body’s giving off. The urge to wrap myself around her is so damn strong, but our little cockblock is right on the other side of the wall in her bunkhouse.
I walk my fingers across the mattress until I find Whitney’s hand and give it a squeeze, then lift it to my mouth and pepper kisses along her knuckles. “I love you, Whit.”