An iced latte. That's the first thing I see when I open the passenger side door of my boyfriend's truck. Boyfriend. The word alone sounds like a foreign concept; like he's some random dude I kidnapped off the street; or a blow-up sex doll that I dressed up instead of down.
"Hey baby." He - the boyfriend, my boyfriend, Erik, says whilst I climb into his passenger seat. He's looking as cute as ever - resembling the cross of what would happen if a penguin and panda were left alone for too long of a time. And one of them, (I'm not entirely sure I want to know who) gave birth to the most adorable looking human being on the planet.
But I'm not obsessed or anything; and definitely not one of those girls that argues with her boyfriend about who's cuter. Yeah. Erik and I have certainly never had that conversation. Which sounds cringy as fuck when you're an outsider; but when you're the one in it, seriously makes your cheeks hurt.
"Hey." I barely have time to get into the seat before he's leaning across the console, wanting to kiss me. If we weren't at work I would climb onto his lap and ride him. What? I heard nothing. Just the sound of my awkward thoughts, blasting through my head.
But unlike my subconscious which is neither timid nor shy, real-life Rosie is a serious ass-kisser. As in, I don't want Erik to kiss me in the TD Arena parking lot, in the rare chance that one of my many bosses is leaving at the same time. Am I a little paranoid? Probably. Wanting to jump my boyfriend because he brought me a latte? Definitely not.
"Erik." I let out a laugh, easing him away by his shoulder as his mouth approaches mine. His lips look as dry as ever, probably from all the lip-locking we were doing earlier.
His puppy-dog eyes flicker down to my mouth, seriously making me question my choice of metaphors. I swear I don't have a thing for golden retrievers. But maybe I do? "We're at work." I remind him, vaguely gesturing to our surroundings like they're on red alert.
He gives me a look, biting his lip before practically eye-fucking me with my clothes on. "Okay." He finally says, pecking me on the cheek before moving his hand to my thigh. "How was work?" He asks, not moving to buckle up; or put the car in drive; or do anything that would indicate us getting out of this awaiting crime scene.
And by crime scene, I mean the place where I lost my mind and hooked up with my boyfriend inside his car. That hasn't happened - yet. But give me another five minutes of inhaling his cologne; and I'll be pretty damn close.
"It was good." I answer, already forgetting about the trivial events of the day. Brent being an asshole. Oscar making jokes. Danielle shoving her head up people's ass. It all seems so irrelevant when I spend time with Erik. Maybe that's partially because I've been thinking about kissing him since I saw him in the arena level, earlier.
There's a bagel sitting on the edge of his console and part of me wants to ask if it's for me, but the other part knows I don't have to - it's all mine. Just joking. He passes the bagel to me and says something about getting my favorite, because of course the boy scout remembers that the only thing I love more than dry-humping in bed, is a sesame seed bagel toasted with deli cream cheese.
"Thank you." I tell him, referring to the bagel - and the iced latte, and all the other ways that he's changed my life. But I say that last part quietly, in my head, the place only he seems to appear. Is it normal to be this obsessed with someone when you're in a relationship? Or is it my OCD? That's what I find myself wondering, whilst I munch away at the bagel with cream cheese.
Did I mention that he got it for me?
"So, we have the showing in an hour." He says, bursting my bubble full of pheromones - or whatever hormone it is that makes you feel happy and in-love; and horny, very, very, horny.
I don't even have to look at his face to know how he's feeling; though, the ever-so lack of excitement in his voice, could use some work.
"I think this is going to be the one." I tell him, ripping the paper off of my straw and shoving it into my pocket, before taking a long sip. I offer it over to Erik, who makes brief eye contact with me before taking his own drink.
Yeah, we're one of those couples. I guess hygienically speaking, sharing drinks isn't the worst; I mean, we're kissing each other so naturally the germs would be getting transferred anyway. Plus, I'm not one of those girls whose lipstick sticks to every cup she drinks from.
Which, can we just take a moment to talk about it. How is having a giant cosmetics-scented smudge over your latte, appealing what so ever? I just don't understand it. Never have, never will. The most that I'm willing to put on my lips is Chapstick - and Erik's dick, on occasion.
He lets out a dry laugh, one that says this is the tenth place we've been to and it doesn't seem like we'll be stopping anytime soon. The problem itself isn't as much with us not knowing what we want, or disagreeing on a countertop style. No, the issue itself lies within the budget, the cold, hard, cash.
More specifically, his abundance of it; and my lack thereof.
"It's a one bedroom." He says, passing me back my iced drink. He rests his elbow against the console, taking up 3/4's of the space. Another benefit of dating a hockey player? Never having your own space. People like to say that women take up a lot of room with their clothes, makeup, and useless frilly shit - but those people have never met Erik King.
We're literally going to have to buy a custom-made bed because he can't sleep comfortably in a regular one. If I could just throw him in the dryer, I swear he'd be perfect. Just kidding, he wouldn't fit in one.
"What's wrong with a one bedroom?" I ask, playing coy mostly so that I'll be able to eat my bagel in peace. Because if I poke at the real problem that Erik and I are facing whilst eating cream cheese, I might just lose my appetite - and also be scarred for life by the very thing I love the most. Whether that's the bagel and iced latte combo or my boyfriend, I'll let you decide.
He gives me a look, like he's not buying what I'm selling but he'll gladly flirt with me while I try. "It's not exactly a lot of space." He reminds me, his eyes flickering to my stomach so briefly that you could almost miss it, but I don't. Nor do I miss the fact that the main reason for him wanting to move into a bigger place is due to his ideas of expanding our family, rather than wanting his own dedicated workout room.
And don't get me wrong, I want to expand our family too - not on a Brady Bunch/Cheaper by the Dozen level, because I'm not sure I could afford the amount of PTSD my vagina would get from that, but something nice and quaint. Like two or three kids.
Though, looking down at my own expectant belly, it's hard to think about the future when I'm currently in the process of giving up my chance at having a kid. I know it's not forever. I know that lots of women who have abortions live to have happy and healthy children - but a small voice inside my head thinks that if I ever have problems getting pregnant in the future, that it would be a legacy I would've created and deserved.
Of course Erik doesn't say any of that; and neither do I, but part of me wonders if he thinks it. If he thinks I'm selfish for having an abortion; for giving up what could be our only chance at having a kid. I know that's very melodramatic and that I'm not living in a soap opera, but these are the kinds of things I worry about. Welcome to my life.
"I think it's plenty of space for what we need, right now." I finally say, swallowing the last bite of my bagel, heavily. I'm not going to cry, that's one thing that I've promised myself. There are plenty more bagels out there.
He watches me, having spent enough time to know how I'm feeling without it having to be said. Which is really poetic, if you ask me. And maybe slightly co-dependent; but let's keep framing it in a positive light and not a negative. Otherwise you might judge me for having to fall asleep with him, every night.
"I'm happy if you're happy." He tells me, giving my flabby thigh a squeeze. Now, I'm not the kind of person to depend on others - anyone but myself is a foreigner without a passport, and I'm a power-tripping border patrol agent. But over the few months I've really begun to trust him; I've really began to fall for Erik King.
And while most people would say they're most afraid of losing a loved one, the ocean, needles, or getting bit by a shark; I would say my biggest fear in life, is life itself. The inevitable end to a relationship, which isn't destined to be.