She had kids. That was it. That was what she said. She had four kids and I felt my insides twist into these impossible positions. My stomach was in my throat, my heart was down at my knees, my brain was saying, what the fuck? Abort! Fucking abort!
But I didn’t do that. No, what I said was, hey, I love kids. No biggie.
That was a lie. I knew it was a lie. I sat there like a ninny and said I liked kids when I didn’t because I wanted to get in her pants. I didn’t want to get in her pants so much as I wanted to just feel something. I wanted to feel like I was cared for. Like I mattered to someone because I had gone through a period, not long before that, where the depression hit me like a dump truck. I didn’t really think I had it and even now I think it was just a low point in my life but I wanted to feel something. Anything.
I was newly back on the dating scene. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what I wanted. I wasn’t looking for someone to move in with or share special romantic evenings with. I just wanted an adventure.
So I moved in with her after two weeks.