Belen
At one in the morning, my husband Grayson's phone lit up.
A message from Leah popped up on the screen:
[I sprained my ankle during rehearsal. It hurts so bad I can't sleep. Can you come hold me?]
Watching Grayson throw on his clothes, I leaned back against the headboard and nearly laughed out loud.
She was pouting in the middle of the night and making a married man drive halfway across Seattle to take care of her. For a twenty-two-year-old dance academy intern, she really wasn't very considerate.
At least nowhere near as thoughtful as a certain sports science major I knew.
That evening, Nolan had just gotten his professional motorcycle racing license and ridden his new bike across the bay to deliver the silver-gray heels I needed for tomorrow's board meeting right to my office building.
Before he left, he'd pinned me between the car door and his chest in the parking garage and kissed me until my knees went weak.