“I need to pay those,” I asserted.
“Clara—”
“West, I need to pay those.”
He stopped talking.
His gaze moved over my face.
Then he tossed the credit card statements on the bed, watched them fall, and turned back to me.
“Right, then, choose the one with the lowest balance. Focus on it. Pay monthly on the others, five, ten dollars more than the minimum payment so you’re doin’ something to draw down the balance. Sock everything else you got at the one with the lowest balance. Once that’s paid off, sock everything you got to the next lowest one. You’re payin’ as much as you can, spreadin’ that out along four of ’em. That’s going to draw this out for-fuckin’-ever. You get one outta the way, you got more to throw at the next. And then again. And again. And it’s done. Yeah?”
That was very smart.
So I said, “Yes.”
“Then you cancel two of ’em. No one needs four credit cards.”
I nodded.
He was definitely right about that.
“Since we’re…you know, this is happening, I’d like to contribute to the house.”
His face shut down and he said, “Babe.”
“West, I love that you want to take care of me, but you need to get that I don’t need it. What I need is to be a partner in our lives. I also need you to let me.”
“Okay, Toots, and what I need is to take care of you. You won’t let me pay those.” He jerked his head to the statements. “You don’t do dick for yourself because you pay those, and you buy treats for the office, and you send money to help cover Mrs. Jimenez. You deal with those.” He jerked his head to the statements again. “You do it on my plan, you’ll be down to two in four months. You get down to those two, and start doin’ shit for yourself, buyin’ pumice scrub or whatever the fuck, we’ll talk about how you can contribute to our lives.”
That sounded…
Like a plan.
“That’s a plan.”
“Thank fuck,” he muttered, clearly thinking he’d get backtalk.
I didn’t comment on that.
I prompted, “Kristy.”
He’d gone unfocused, such was his relief I didn’t argue with his plan.
But he focused then.
And his focus was a deep, intent, gleaming, magnificent focus.
Instantly, I read my man.
“Oh my God,” I whispered.
“I do not know the woman I just talked to,” he confirmed what I’d read. “But she wants me to call the school to start the transfer, and she says, once that’s sorted, we can move ’em down.”
“Oh my God,” I breathed.
“Yeah,” he said.
Suddenly, he caught my head in both hands and put his face in mine.
“I do not trust this shit, so I don’t wanna say anything to them. I told her I want that in writing. I want an emailed letter, I want it by tomorrow morning, with her printing it out, putting her goddamned signature on it and sending it to me. I’m still callin’ the school first thing Monday. But we don’t tell the kids until I got that email. You with me?”
I nodded mutely.
“Tatie good?” he asked.
I nodded again mutely.
“You gonna pass out, seein’ as you’re not breathing?”
“We’re getting the kids,” I whispered.
“Yeah,” he whispered back, that intent, gleaming magnificent look back in his eyes.
I caught his head like he had mine. I yanked his mouth down on mine. I kissed him hard.
Then I broke away, turning from him.
I bent over, pumped my arms rapidly at my sides, jerked up, then clapped silently, jumping up and down.
“Jesus, fuck, Toots, you are a dorky librarian,” he noted, smiling broadly.
“We get the kids, we get the kids, wegetthekids,” I chanted quietly.
He kept smiling.
“We get the kids, we get the kids, wegetthekids,” I repeated my chant quietly.
“Baby, don’t make me wanna fuck you. Both of ’em are still awake. You know we don’t fuck until they’re out.”
“We get the kids, we get the kids, wegeththekids,” I said yet again.
He burst out laughing, doing it hooking me by my neck, and I face planted in his chest because he made me.
I wound my arms around him.
He pulled me closer, smooshing my face in his chest.
I turned so I had my cheek to it instead.
Then, in the top of my hair, he whispered, his voice guttural.
“We get the kids.”
“Yeah,” I replied.
He held tight.
I did too.
And it was all good.
32
The Life and Times of West Hardy
Later that night, I was in my nightie, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed, my gaze on the frames on the dresser across the room, when the light went out in the bathroom.
I swung my head that way, seeing Buck walk in wearing cutoff, flannel pajama bottoms.
He rarely wore pajamas. If he had to don something, he put on jeans.
But sometimes, for reasons known only to West Hardy, he put on one of the three pairs (all cutoff, all frequently washed) of pajama bottoms he owned.