Even when I receive a slew of messages from her at the most inconvenient times of the day.
Penny: I have an appointment for 8 a.m. next Friday. That’s not too early, right?
Penny: Or, is that too late? I know your morning work is the biggest part of your day. I'll see if they can do a Saturday.
Penny: But you work Saturdays, too. Booo :(
Rolling my eyes, I quickly call her before she sends a dozen more messages. I let her know that her original appointment will work fine. I have a couple farm hands employed for things like this. They’ll be able to take over for me so I can accompany this crazy girl to her appointment.
Later in the evening, I hear from her again.
Penny: You’re fine with not being on the birth certificate, right?
Penny: I’m reading all these horror stories about legal fights, and I think it’s best to leave the ‘father’ part blank.
Penny: You’re not mad, are you?
It’s times like these that I wish I were better at texting. I’m on the tractor when those messages come through. Not the ideal circumstances for conducting important phone calls. So I send her a thumbs-up and a tractor emoji, hoping that’ll subdue her until later.
At three in the morning, she starts hitting me with more texts. More questions. More facts.
For someone who supposedly wants to do all this by herself, she sure includes me a lot. Not that I’m complaining. Being here for her makes me feel purposeful.
Penny: I’m so overwhelmed. Did you know there are four types of artificial insemination?!
Penny: Crazy, right?
Penny: Not sure which one to chose.
Penny: I’m leaning toward ‘intracervical insemination’. It doesn’t have the highest success rate but it’s the most cost effective. What do you think?
I groan, pulling my blanket back up over my head. She can’t be saying words like ‘cervical’ and ‘semen’ to me, not when it’s morning and I’m hard. Especially not after hours and hours of vivid, x-rated Penny-related dreams.
Lately, I’ve been dreaming about knocking her up the old-fashioned way. My subconscious mind fills in all the blanks, all the parts of my friend that I’ve never seen. The feminine flush of her erect nipples. The light dusting of curls framing her pussy. The glistening sheen of that tight, hot space between her thighs.
I’m starting to struggle with keeping those dreams separate from my waking hours.
I can’t tell her that. Any of it. She’d be mortified that her 'B-F-F' is picturing her naked.
I text her a thumbs-up emoji and shut my eyes, willing my body to ignore the explicit images in my mind and get another twenty minutes of sleep before my early morning alarm goes off.
We’ve always been close, Penn and me. I like to think that there haven’t been many walls between us throughout our lifelong friendship. But now that I've agreed to be her baby daddy, I’m discovering that absolutely nothing is sacred between us anymore.
I’m in the bathroom, dealing with my morning wood, when the next round of texts come in. I check out her messages and then go back to relieving another early morning Penny-induced hard-on so I can finally empty my bladder.
I swear, she can sense me ignoring her. A few more texts come in. Then a couple more.
Penny: YOU’RE NOT BACKING OUT, ARE YOU!?!
Fuck…
I don’t want her freaking out. I drop my dick and dial her number. I know she’s taking extra hormone stuff. Maybe that’s what’s got her so riled up. Though I’d never, ever dare say that to her out loud.
“Chill, woman,” I huff when she picks up her phone. “If you don’t hear from me right away, you need to relax. Sometimes, a man is just busy. Nothing more.”
"I'm sorry for being a nag. It's just I'm scared and excited and nervous and—What is that?” she asks when I flush the toilet. I guess I underestimated how loud it’d be through my phone. I can’t say I’ve taken many calls while cleaning up after rubbing one out.
“What do you think?”
She’s silent for a beat. Then, “Oh, gross. Don’t call me when you’re doing that!” She hangs up on me.
I roll my eyes.
I try to convince myself that I’m annoyed by it all. But hell, I do like talking to that girl.
She makes me smile.
There aren’t many people on this earth who can boast that talent.
My phone rings a few hours later while I'm feeding the chickens. Instantly assuming that it's Penny, I feel a smile twitching my lips as I dig around in my back pocket for the device. But everything warm and fuzzy inside me immediately turns to ice when I see the name glaring up at me from my caller ID.
Bert Peters.
With a clenched jaw, I immediately reject the call and shove the device back into my pocket. But it's too fucking late. My good vibes scatter. I'm left here stewing in the jarring reminder of exactly why I've always been the bitter asshole that I am.
11
Walker
Cannon leans back in the styling chair and exhales as the barber unravels his hair tie.
I can’t help but chuckle. I swear, I’ll never get used to my brother's janky man bun. Dad and I made fun of his ass for the whole first year he started growing it out. Half a decade later, the bro knot is still going strong.
We’re all at the Rusty Razor, getting our monthly haircut. I’ve been coming here since the place opened up a few years ago.
I like the owner, Clinton Alvarez. He’s a cool guy, he gives a decent cut and most importantly, he minds his damn business. So, I’m more than willing to drive the extra distance to Copper Heights for my trim.
I don’t quite know how it happened, but gradually the haircut thing became a family ritual. Dad and I came together a few times, bringing Gramps along for his occasional trim. Then, Cannon started tagging along and then Jude.
Clingy fuckers.
Now, one day each month, the Rusty Razor
