Parker was so stressed out after dinner last night, I just wanted to take his stress away. The fact that I finally got to explore his naked chest was simply a bonus. The massage seemed to do the trick. He fell asleep ten minutes into it, and was dead to the world. Thank god he was wearing those track pants, because they were easy to slide from his comatose body. I snuggled in next to him, and when I woke this morning, our positions had switched, but he was still fast asleep. Now instead of me pressing against him, Parker is wrapped around my body, one arm tight against my chest, and his morning wood tapping insistently against my ass.

Well, there’s one sure way to take care of that, so I slide under the covers and set to work. I know I’ve succeeded when Parker pulls back the covers, wishes me a “good morning,” and comes down my throat.

After Parker returns the favor and we get washed up, he says he wants to take me someplace special.

“Does it include food? Because I’m starving,” I say with a pointed rub to my belly. After the tiring day we had yesterday, we both slept in until almost noon, and my stomach is not pleased with me.

Someplace special turns out to be Maisy’s Diner, the place where apparently most of Parker’s pivotal teenage moments happened. Over pancakes and bacon and many cups of coffee, Parker points out the booth where he first asked out a girl at age fourteen and was shot down. He talks about the old jukebox, which no longer works, but did when he tried to impress a girl with his musical tastes. That led to him getting to second base in the diner parking lot, another of his firsts.

“Why, BoomBoom, I thought you were a virtuous young man before Shelby!”

“I was a virgin, not a member of the never-touch-a-boobie tribe.”

I almost choke on my coffee, but manage to swallow it down, followed by gasps of air. “Oh my god, you did not just say that. You are such a nerd. And FYI, I’m a member of that tribe, and it’s pretty fucking great.”

Parker waggles his eyebrows at me, which earns him another “dork.”

“So, what’s the story with BoomBoom?”

“You know, I’ve been meaning to ask you, what happened with your job?” Parker might as well bat his eyelashes at me, he’s playing the whole thing so innocently.

“Nope,” I say and point an accusatory slice of bacon. Oklahoma apparently has very judgy bacon. “You are not distracting me from whatever embarrassments you are hiding. However, I will make you a deal. I’ll tell you about my job if you tell me how you earned the nickname BoomBoom.”

Parker carefully sets down his fork, bite of pancake still speared and dripping with the perfect amount of syrup. He closes his eyes and braces his hands against the table in what looks like some strange ritual – or he’s praying for some way to get out of this. Since God doesn’t strike the diner with a bolt of lightning, he’s forced to continue.

“Sharon was here visiting for Christmas the year that I was potty training. I think maybe my grandparents on my dad’s side too. That was pretty typical of Christmases back then. After my grandparents passed away, we switched and did Thanksgiving with Sharon and Christmas with Aunt Bonnie.”

I clear my throat and sing-song, “Stalling.” Parker makes a face, but continues.

“I guess at one point, I had tried to tell someone I needed to go to the bathroom, but they were all so busy that I couldn’t get anyone’s attention. So I took off my diaper in the middle of the living room and started smacking my own rear, shouting ‘bottom.’”

I absolutely refrain from making gushing noises over the thought of adorable baby Parker. Right.

“Only I couldn’t say ‘bottom’ properly, and it came out ‘boomboom.’ Thus, my nickname was born.”

“You know, later at the hotel, I’ll totally do the rear smacking for you, BoomBoom,” I say with a wink.

“I will leave you here, in Guthrie, Oklahoma, at the mercy of my insane family, and drive myself back to Fort Collins. Don’t think I won’t do it.”

I push out my bottom lip, but his steely resolve doesn’t budge. “You’re no fun.”

“I told you my story. Now you owe me one of your own. What happened with your job?”

I sigh and shake my head, as if that will keep the weight of my words from sticking to me.

“Redneck client wanted me to be all man or he wouldn’t work with me. I refused, and the boss sided with where the money is. Pretty simple.”

“You know that’s illegal, right?” Parker says with his mouth gaping. “At least it is in Colorado.”

“It’s happened before; I’m sure it will happen again. Besides, there are tons of ways that he can get around it. Say I was refusing to work or being subordinate. It would take time and money that I don’t have, and I probably wouldn’t get anywhere anyway.”

Parker frowns around a piece of bacon. This one’s less judgy, more sympathetic. Moody Oklahoma bacon. “That’s not right.”

“No, it’s not. But it’s the way things are,” I say.

“If you need any help looking for work, let me know. Not sure what I can do, but I’ll help however I can.”

“Thanks.” I sip at my coffee, which tastes more bitter than before.

Parker slaps down cash to cover our meal despite my protests to pay half.

“Let me celebrate another first here,” he says, and when I look confused, adds, “Our first date.”

I’m surprised I can make it back to the car; he’s turned me into mush.

The drive from the diner to his parents’ house is less than five minutes. Seeing the neighborhood for the first time during the day, I’m once again thankful for growing up in Colorado. The wide-open spaces stretch for miles of nothing but dry, pointless plots of land unless you’re going to farm or ranch, which these people aren’t.

We drove past many similar stretches of land on the way here yesterday, plots where animals grazed and the land was being put to use. Not this neighborhood with its mini-mansions. I’m sure there’s not a bit of work on these properties actually done by the residents themselves. It looks like someplace my father would live if he lived in Oklahoma.

“You hate it,” Parker says as we turn onto the street that leads to his parents’ house.

“It’s just different from what I’m used to,” I say, even though yeah, I definitely hate it.

“It’s okay. I couldn’t wait to get out of here, either. Not because I hate it or my family, but I had so much I wanted to do and see.”

“And did you?”

Expensive cars fill the driveway and spill onto the side of the street. Parker parks as close as possible.

“Not yet,” he says, looking over at me with a thoughtful smile. “But I think I’m finally headed in the right direction.”

“If you could go anywhere in the world, where would it be?” I ask while simultaneously brushing a hand down the leg of my slacks. I’m dressed extremely conservatively for the party, tailored straight-legged slacks, heeled boots, and a cashmere wrap top. The grass is so long and dry that it keeps scratching my legs and I can’t take two steps without feeling the urge to swipe at them, which Parker of course notices.

“You’ll get used to it. At least it’s winter, so there are no stickers. My ankles and feet were always torn up as a kid, running around barefoot every spring.” Parker must see the horror on my face, because he quickly returns to the previous subject. “Iceland. I’ve always been fascinated by it, and the Northern Lights and the ice and volcanoes. It looks so magical and untouched. Like actual fairy tales should take place there.”

Who’d have ever guessed that Parker the perfectionist engineer would turn out to be a closet romantic? It makes my heart so happy I can’t even tease him about it. It’s too pure and good to be tarnished.

“You’re looking at me funny,” he says as we finally reach the front of the house.

“I’m looking at you like you’re amazing,” I say, and push the front door open before I can embarrass myself further.

Lively music comes from the living room, which is filled with middle-aged folks in casual party attire. Parker’s dad stands by the fireplace, surrounded by other men of a similar age, but it’s clear he’s the center of attention. I don’t see Parker’s mom anywhere, but his aunt Sharon flits from the kitchen to a table against an adjacent wall that’s filled with goodies, depositing another tray of mini quiches.

“Maybe we should see if your aunt needs some help, BoomBoom,” I say and smile sweetly at the glare I’m granted.

We weave through guests and into the kitchen. Sharon has rolled up the sleeves of her lovely floral blouse, and stabs bits of mozzarella and basil and cherry tomatoes with long skewers.

“Sharon, do you need help?” Parker asks.

“Oh, thank god you’re here,” Sharon says and gives Parker a hug with just her elbows since her hands are still occupied. “Actually, Mal, can you help me out with this, and Parker, can you go check on your mom? She’s supposed to be getting ready.”

“Reporting for duty,” I say, and wash my hands before picking up a skewer and starting to stab the cheese and veg.

“You know,” Parker says over my shoulder, “If you were to do the tomatoes first, then the stick wouldn’t have residue from the mozzarella, and it would go much smoother.”

“And then no one would want to eat them because you’d get all the cheese at once and no tomato to break it up. Not everything needs to be designed for efficiency, hon. Besides,” I say, holding up the perfectly pretty skewer. “This is much more visually pleasing.”

Parker cocks a brow, but leaves me to it after I give him a reassuring smile.

“You look exhausted, Sharon.” Now that I’ve taken over the hors d'oeuvres, she’s moved on to punch. “Parker said his mom was a party genius. What happened?”

Sharon’s sigh fills the whole kitchen. “I have no idea. Usually Betty prepares everything ahead of time so there isn’t so much to do the day of. But this time, nothing was ready. I’ve run around all morning trying to prepare the hors d’oeuvres, set up tables and decorations, and gone to the store to get the cake, since one tiny pie will not serve this many people. She spent all morning on Ralph’s pie and that’s it. By one thirty, I finally made her go shower because she was still in her sweats. And then as the first guest was about to arrive, she asked me yet again what time the party was starting. I’ve been running around like a chicken with my head cut off ever since.”

Sharon says all this with such steely focus on the damn punch bowl that I know she either knows something that we don’t, or she suspects it.

“You don’t live here, right?”

“I’m in Tucson. Had I known she needed so much help, I would have come down sooner.”

“Do you think …”

This is something I’ve been pondering since meeting Mrs. McWilliams last night. Her repeated questions, memory gaps, being stuck in the past in so many ways. It doesn’t seem like usual forgetfulness, or some passive-aggressive punishment like Parker seems to think. I’m certainly not an expert, but it seems like there’s something more going on here. I hadn’t brought it up to Parker, though, because – again – not an expert, and I didn’t want to needlessly worry him.

I’m still debating whether or not to bring it up with Sharon, when Parker and Mrs. McWilliams storm into the kitchen.

“I don’t know why you’re getting so angry with me,” Mrs. McWilliams says. “I just asked if Shelby was in the kitchen.”

She surveys the kitchen, obviously disappointed not to find Shelby here, but sticks on me.

“Hello,” she says, approaching me with a Martha Stewart hostess smile, “I’m Betty McWilliams. Are you a friend of Ralph’s?”