Page 61 of Falling for Her

I take a sip of coffee to stop myself from saying I know. That would be two words, and he doesn’t get that from me. Instead, I nod at him.

“Do you think you can do the laundry today?”

“Sure.” I walk to the farthest part of the kitchen from him. It’s the opposite of what I want to do. I want to go stand in front of him, put my hand on his chest, get up on my tippy-toes, and kiss him.

“I’ll be home as soon as I can.” He moves away from the counter. I don’t know why I hold my breath, wondering if he’s going to come to me. He walks around the kitchen island and stands there. “I’m off this weekend.” I don’t know why that makes me a bit sad. I should be rejoicing that I’ll have two days off, and I can do what I want. “Finley, you’re going to have to talk to me.” I can hear the frustration in his voice. “We have to talk about what happened last night.”

I’m about to tell him we do not when the sound of footsteps makes us both swing our heads toward the stairs. Asa comes into view, barefoot, his hair all over the place. I smile at him.

“Morning, buddy, how did you sleep?” My many words and upbeat tone earn me a glare from Lincoln.

“Good,” Asa says, oblivious to the tension.

“Hey, buddy.” Lincoln opens his arms, and Asa jumps into them and buries his face in his neck. Lincoln kisses the side of his head, and I’m mesmerized by this. “I’m going to work,” he tells him, “but I have the whole weekend off, so we can do something fun.”

“Can we go ride horses?” Asa asks me, not Lincoln. I want to smirk and say something, but stop myself.

Lincoln smiles at his son. “I’ll call Charlie, and we can see.”

“Cool.” He wiggles out of his father’s arms to rush over to me. “You want to come with us? You can show Dad how you race the horses.”

I smile at him. “It’s not racing, buddy. It’s working the horse, and we’ll see.” I now know, as someone who has been with kids, that means no.

“I’m heading out,” Lincoln announces. “I’ll call you guys later.” He stares at me one more time, and I look back but don’t speak.

As soon as he’s gone, Asa goes to the couch, picking up his tablet.

“It’s a relax day,” I tell him. “We can maybe do some crafts and stuff.” I put my coffee on the table. “But first I have to go do the laundry.”

“Okay,” he mumbles, “I’m going to make myself cereal.”

In the laundry room, there are two baskets full of clothes. I study the buttons on the machine. “How hard could this be?” I ask myself, taking out my phone and typing in the model of his washing machine, and How do I start a load of laundry?

Sure enough, a thoughtful woman has posted a video. “Step one, sort laundry by color,” she says. “I usually do my lights together and then do the darks in another load.” I pause the video and sort the laundry, separating the lights from the darks. Lincoln wears a lot of black, so it’s pretty easy.

“That’s easy enough.” I press play on the video again.

“For standard washing, add detergent first and then add the right amount of color-safe bleach to the dispenser, diluting as needed, or add it directly to the wash, before adding clothes.” I stop listening as I look around for the detergent and find it on top of the shelf, with the scoop inside. There’s a bottle of bleach beside it.

I look over at the load. “That looks like a max load,” I decide. I dump the soap in and wonder how to dilute the bleach. “It’s fine, it’ll probably dilute itself.” I can’t find a dispenser, so I just add it to the machine like she said. She didn’t say how much, so I eyeball it, pouring for about five seconds. “That looks right.”

“Finley,” Asa yells, “I spilled the milk.”

“Fuck,” I mumble. “I’ll be right there,” I shout back as I pick up the pile of dark pants and shirts, tossing them inside and shutting the lid.

I follow the woman’s instructions on how to start the wash, and in a couple of seconds, the water is pouring. I smile big. “Add laundry to my list of things I know how to do.” I dust off my hands. “In fifty-five minutes, I’ll find a video on how to use the dryer.”

I take care of the spill on the kitchen counter, then eat cereal with Asa while we watch a television show. My phone rings, and I see it’s Davis calling from his office number. Of course, I’m not going to answer. And of course, he calls again immediately.

“Aren’t you going to answer that?” Asa asks.

“It’s a telemarketer,” I lie, turning my phone to silent mode and slipping it into my pocket.

When the washer buzzes, I open the front loader and start pulling out wet clothes. When I see a black shirt now has patches of brown and orange, I know I fucked up.

“No-no-no-no-no,” I chant, grabbing Lincoln’s cargo pants that are now a deep, uneven brown. “No-no-no.” The next item has white spots on it. “This can’t be happening.” Every single piece of clothing is ruined. I close my eyes. “I am so fucked.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN