“There’s a meeting for my fundraiser tomorrow, sweetheart, and I just found out that Bruce has a dentist appointment.” I can practically see her rolling her eyes over the phone. “Which, of course, he didn’t think it important to mention to me until just this minute.”
I hear Bruce muttering in the background and Alice snaps, “that’s enough from you, mister.”
I grin to myself. I’ve always loved their banter, the way they quarrel and tease. It was so different from the fighting I was used to hearing in my own house. Because even when they argued, Bruce and Alice Warner were clearly very much in love with each other.
“Anyhow,” Alice goes on. “I wondered if you were free and if so, would you like to hang out with the little guy for a few hours after school?”
My heart both soars and constricts at the same time. I appreciate that Alice has never once referred to my time with Wyatt as babysitting, but it still stings a little bit to be asked to watch my own son.
“I would love to.”
“Oh, good. Well, my meeting doesn’t start until four-thirty so I can pick him up from school and you can meet us here. Sound good?”
I would have preferred to pick him up from school myself, as that would have gotten me a few more precious hours, but my class doesn’t get out until three, a fact Alice is well aware of. Telling her I would skip school won’t help me much in the long run, not if I’m looking to prove to them how responsible I am.
For the rest of the day I carry the promise of seeing Wyatt in my heart like a talisman. I go on a cleaning spree through my house, though I had done much the same before his last Saturday visit. I feel like I could somehow erase the memories of the weekend if I could just get the house clean enough. Like changing my sheets and taking the beer bottles to recycling could erase Cash’s visit.
It isn’t so easy to erase him from my mind.
Cash is not the first guy I’ve brought home during one of my meltdowns, as Penny so politely called them. There have been others, many others, all enlisted in an attempt to help me forget, at least for a night, what a disaster my life is. But the forgetting never lasts long, replaced almost immediately by disgust at myself, by anger that I messed up again, by fear that I’ll never be able to break these patterns. And guilt, of course. Then again, that emotion is pretty much constantly present, one-night stand or not.
One thing that rarely accompanies the regret and guilt is any lingering thoughts of the guy himself. Sometimes I can even manage to forget what they looked like. They take on a faceless quality, these men I sleep with. A foggy, barely remembered aspect of a regretted night.
So why can’t I forget Cash’s face?
It’s probably just because his face has so long been familiar to me. He is famous after all—there was a picture of him on my Facebook feed this very morning, for God’s sake. No, Cash would be impossible to forget.
I just wish I could forget the other things. The things that have nothing to do with his famous, oft photographed face. The way his heart had felt, beating through his chest against mine. The noises he made when I kissed his neck. The way he had inhaled deeply, his eyes widening, the moment he saw me naked.
Stop it, I order, not for the first time this week. It’s going to be impossible to stop obsessing over the mistakes of the weekend if I can’t stop obsessing about this guy.
He hasn’t given you a second thought, I remind myself. He’s probably slept with half a dozen women by now, blazing a trail along the Pacific Northwest, forgetting all about me. A flash of his face, set in anger and disappointment, the morning that I asked him to leave, flashes across my mind and I wince.
So he doesn’t like being rejected. That doesn’t mean his disappointment had anything at all to do with me.
I spend the rest of the night getting ahead on my reading so I’ll be able to focus entirely on Wyatt the next day. And I only think about Cash once or twice.
An hour. Until long after I’ve gone to bed.
Pulling up in front of the Warners’ house always sends my stomach crashing under the assault of so many strong, contradictory emotions. I love this house, have always loved it. For many, many years of my life it was a symbol of safety, of acceptance. Even of love. It had been home, long before I married the Warner’s only child. After Doug enlisted, those feelings only increased. When I came home to visit from our little house on the base in Arizona, it was to this house—the only real home I’d ever had. And when the news came that he had gone missing, I had hopped on a plane and come straight here.
But time has a funny way of making happy memories painful. The home that was once such a source of strength for me is now riddled with so many other, conflicting emotions. I can feel Doug in every corner of that house, even after all these years. During his enlistment, that had been a comfort. Now, it merely breaks my heart a little more every time I visit.
And there’s that too. The fact that I visit this house. It isn’t my home, not anymore. But it is Wyatt’s. And that hurts more than anything else.
I unbuckle my seat belt, taking a deep breath, determined to enjoy the unexpected treat of spending the day with my favorite person. A person who is already out the front door, dancing on the porch in his socks, waving at me.
I grin, running up the lawn. Wyatt jumps from the porch into my arms, laughing. “Hi!”
“Hi, kiddo!”
“Grandma said we get to hang out all day!”
“Did she? I thought I was here to hang out with Bobba Fett.”
He tugs my ear, a little trait he had picked up from his grandfather, and I pull him back against my chest, hugging him tight.
“I can’t breathe, Mom,” he gasps, but he’s still laughing so I attack his sides in tickles instead.
“Wyatt Warner, what have I told you about leaving this house with no shoes?”
I peek over his little head at Alice, standing in the doorway. She grins at me before turning a stern expression on her grandson. “Well?”
“Sorry,” he mutters, sliding out of my arms onto the porch. “I forgot.”
“Come on inside.”
I follow him in, feeling slightly chastised myself. I’d been the one to grab him, socks and all.
In the entryway I breathe in deeply, the familiar smell of the Warner house invading my senses. Alice is constantly cooking or baking something, filling the air with smells of spices and warmth. But beyond that is something uniquely Warner, something that has nothing to do with the food or whatever candles were lit. That scent brings with it a million memories. Hanging out in the den with Doug watching movies. Him finally, finally making his move and kissing me, right there on that couch. The day he had brought me home, his voice set and strong while tears ran down my cheeks, and explained to his parents in no uncertain terms that I was staying.
“Sam?” Alice asks, her voice loud. I shake myself, wondering how many times she called me. She’s watching me with a sympathetic look on her face, like she knows exactly what’s going on in my head. “I was just making us an after school snack. Are you hungry?
I follow them both into the kitchen while Wyatt talks a mile a minute, telling me all about the new turtle that his teacher brought in for the class. “It’s my job to feed it for the whole week,” he said, his eyes huge with excitement.
“What do turtles eat, anyhow?” I ask him. “Little boy fingers?”
He rolls his eyes at me and I laugh and then groan a little as Alice sets a plate of cinnamon rolls before me. “These look amazing.”
“Dye ahh,” Wyatt says through a mouthful. It looks like he’s shoved half the roll in his mouth in one go.
“Manners, kiddo,” I tell him firmly. He grins at me with an open mouth, the half chewed roll visible between his teeth. I want to laugh, probably would laugh if we were at my house, but under the watchful eyes of Alice I narrow my eyes. “Wyatt.”
He immediately snaps his mouth closed and goes back to chewing though he can’t quite wipe the grin off of his face at how successfully gross h
e’d been.
“So, what are your plans today?” Alice asks, joining us at the table.
I look over at Wyatt. “What do you think?”
He swallows hurriedly and coughs. I hand him his milk and hit his back several times. “You okay?”
He nods, drinking the milk in big gulps.
“Maybe that should teach you not to shove the whole thing in your mouth at once.”
He wipes his mouth and looks at me expectedly. “What about the park? You could maybe show me that header again. I think I might get it soon.”
I raise an eyebrow. “If you think you can handle it.”
His resulting grin is enough to melt my heart. I would have taken this kid to the moon if he asked for it. “I can’t wait to show coach. He said no one used headers at our age, but I know I can do it.”
“We can try,” I tell him. “The only way to get really good is to practice.”
“I’ll practice all the time! Can we go now?”
I look to Alice and she nods, smiling at Wyatt’s enthusiasm. I immediately feel a little sick that I had to ask her. That I couldn’t just tell my own kid that yes, I would take him to the park right now.
“Go get your soccer things then,” I tell him, trying to keep the annoyance from my voice. Alice doesn’t deserve it. Whatever has happened to get me into this situation, it’s no one’s fault but my own.
“This was delicious, Alice,” I tell her, gathering the plates from the table and bringing them to the sink to rinse. She joins me, taking the rinsed plates as I hand them to her, loading them into the dishwasher.
“A nice snack is the best way to get through the afternoon,” she tells me. “Now, Sam. How are you?”
“Oh, I’m fine.” She’s standing too close, close enough to see my face. I push down the nerves, wondering what she can see there. Will she know, somehow, that the mother of her grandchild spent her Saturday night getting shit faced and then bringing a promiscuous rock star to her bed?
“And school? School is going well?”
“Really well. I got an A on my marketing presentation.” I can’t keep the pride from my voice even though I’m well aware that I sound like a five-year-old seeking her mother’s approval. And Alice doesn’t disappoint. She gives a little gasp of pleasure and wraps an arm around my shoulder, squeezing me. “Well done, Sam! I’m so proud of you.”
I duck my chin a little, both embarrassed and pleased.
“So you’re still on track for graduation?” she asks. “No hiccups anywhere?”
Hiccups. That was a funny way to describe the numerous times I had completely screwed my life up. But that was Alice. Even after every terrible, unforgivable thing I had done she had never once tried to make me feel bad. Never tried to shame me or make me feel guilty. Of course, I didn’t need any help in that department.
“Not a hiccup in sight,” I tell her. “In just a few months I’ll be walking with my class.”
“Wow,” she whispers, and then sniffs loudly. She grabs a dishrag and dabs at her eyes. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m just…oh, I’m so proud of you!”
“Alice—” Before I can say anything she throws her arms around me, clutching me tight. I breathe in the familiar scent of her, lemon verbena and Chanel Number Five, and rest my head against her shoulder, the way I’ve done a million times.
“Doug would be so proud. He always talked about you going to school, how he knew you were going to make it.” She’s really crying now, her broad shoulders shaking beneath my cheek. “That was the first thing he ever told me about you, you know? He sat right here at that table and said, ‘Mom, she’s so smart. The smartest in our class.’ Lord, that feels like yesterday.”
I swallow, closing my eyes tight. The guilt and the shame are mixing in my belly with the sharp ache of missing him, making me wish I had skipped the cinnamon roll.
She pulls back to look me full in the face. “He’d be so happy about this.”
“I don’t know.” I can’t quite meet her eyes so I look at the top button of her sweater instead. “It took me long enough.”
“Hush,” she says firmly. “You’ve been through so much, of course it wasn’t going to be simple. The important thing is that you’ve done it. You’ve really done it, Sam.”
I nod, still staring at her button. I feel like I might throw up. It’s hard, way too hard, to hear her talk about Doug being proud of me. I knew Doug better than anyone else in the world. Knew him better even than Penny. Better than myself. And I’d be willing to bet everything I had that pride would not be one of the adjectives he would use if he could see me now.
“What’s going on?” Wyatt asks from the doorway, his voice suspicious. “Why are you crying? Are you being girly?”
Alice releases me and swoops down on him, pulling him to her and planting kisses all around his face. I meet his exasperated gaze in sympathy—she always insists on excessive cuddles whenever she gets upset about her son.
“Can we go now?” he asks, and I’m proud of him for not trying to push her away or wiggle out of her arms. He has experience with this, I know, but it’s more than that. He’s a very intuitive, sensitive kid. It’s like he can somehow sense what the people around him need, and he’s willing to give it—even if it means his grandma planting kisses all over his face when he only wants to go play soccer.
“Go,” she says, releasing him to wipe her eyes. “Have fun, my sweet boy.”
I take his hand, grateful to get out of that kitchen and away from the crushing weight of Alice’s pride.
***
“Maybe this is too hard for me after all,” Wyatt says, sounding weary and defeated.
“Maybe it is,” I tell him matter-of-factly. “Maybe we should put you back onto a three versus three team.”
He glowers at me, his little chest puffing out. “Three versus three is for babies. I’m a striker.”
I raise an eyebrow at him. “Do strikers complain about things being too hard? ‘Cause I thought strikers just worked really hard until they got the hang of it.”
“Fine,” he growls, and I have to hide my laugh. “Do it again.”
We’ve been in the park for more than an hour. Part of me wants to tell him he’s had enough, that it is too hard for someone his age, and we’d better go and get ice cream instead. We spent the first hour practicing with a beach ball before moving onto a slightly deflated soccer ball. Even with these precautions, I’m starting to worry that he might get a headache.
But if there’s anything I know about Wyatt, it’s that he doesn’t like to be coddled. If I suggested we give up now he would be moody for the rest of the day. So instead I continue to lobe balls at him, giving him directions when he misses. Finally, an hour and half after we started, he successfully manages to head the ball directly into the net.
“I did it.” His voice is quiet almost disbelieving. He looks over at me. “I did it?”
“Heck yeah you did!” I throw my arms up into the air. “You did it! Woot!”
The grin that breaks out on his face convinces me it would have been worth it to try for a hundred hours. He throws his arms over his head, mimicking my pose, and let’s out a giant whoop.
I grab him around his little waist, swinging him in the air. “Wyatt is the best! Wyatt is the soccer king of West Wood!”
He’s laughing and cheering, pumping his fists into the air, and in that moment, the entire weekend fades away. None of it matters—the mistakes and the guilt and regret. This is the only thing that matters. This is what I’m working for. This moment with my boy—and the chance for hundreds more like it.
When I finally put him down we’re both out of breath but still grinning. “I think that definitely calls for some celebration ice cream, kiddo.”
“Hot fudge celebration ice cream,” he corrects. “With whipped cream and sprinkles.”
I laugh, rumpling his hair, and start to walk across the field to the parking lot. “Just don’t tell grandma. She’ll be mad I spoiled your
dinner.”
“Not when she hears that I learned how to do a header.” His voice is almost smug. “Into the net!”
“Dude, you knocked that baby right into the net!”
He lets out another whoop and I laugh, grabbing his hand. “Now, remember. Just because you did it once doesn’t mean you’ll be able to do it every time. It might take just as much practice next time.” I squeeze his hand. “But you will be able to do it again. I know it.”
He squeezes back and I wish I could pull him up into a hug again. I settle with keeping a firm grip on his hand as we walk across the field. “Okay. Ice cream. It’s decision time my friend. Are we in a cookies and cream mood? Or a mint chocolate chip mood?”
He considers. “I don’t know. What about a peanut butter fudge mood?”
“Ooh. You’re going against the grain. I like it.”
As we near the parking lot I pull the keys from my purse, scanning the spots for my car. Just as my eyes alight on the little blue Focus, a figure steps in front of us.
“Hey, Samantha. What a pleasant surprise.”
Shit.
No, no, no. What is he doing here? He cannot be here.
“Cash?” I gasp. “Cash, what are you—?”
“Are you going to introduce me to your friend?” he asks, looking down at Wyatt. I feel like I might faint.
“This isn’t a good time—”
But Wyatt is already holding out his hand toward Cash. Damn his exemplary manners. “I’m Wyatt Warner. It’s very nice to see you.”
“Meet you,” I correct automatically, my brain spinning. Why is he here?
“Very nice to meet you,” Wyatt parrots, and then Cash takes his hand and shakes it.
No, no, no.
“My name is Cash Ransome,” he says, very formal like.
Wyatt makes a face. “Cash Ransome? Isn’t that what kidnappers want?”
Cash grins. “It is. Which means it’s a very cool name.”
“Why is it a cool name?”
Cash leans down so he’s on level with Wyatt and grins roguishly. “Because it’s dangerous.”
Wyatt laughs and I feel sick.
“Well, Cash, it was really nice seeing you,” I say, my voice tight as I glare daggers at him. “But we have to be going.”
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