by Anna Martin
Anna Martin's Single Dads Box Set
Summer Son - Helix - The Color of Summer
Anna Martin
Summer Son
by Anna Martin
www.annamartin-fiction.com
© 2019 Anna Martin
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
First edition August 2014 (Dreamspinner Press)
Second (revised) edition February 2020
Characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. Any person depicted on the cover of this book is a model and is not affiliated with, nor do they endorse, this story.
Chapter 1
I often wondered how much of our nighttime routine actually meant anything to Harrison. It had been the same since the day I’d brought my tiny red-faced baby home from the hospital, full of ideas and ideals about how I wanted to raise my son.
That first night, Tom Waits’s first album was already set up on my record player, and it was what I turned on as we settled down in the rocking chair. The music was probably inappropriate in places, but Harrison didn’t know that.
For seven months I’d listened to a couple of songs on that album every night while Harrison had his bottle and fell asleep in my arms. As soon as Harrison was sleeping deeply enough, I moved him to the crib and turned the music off, then went to work.
Fortunately, “work” was a desk set up in the corner of the living room with my super-wide-screen monitor and desktop computer. The routine was important to make sure I could squeeze in another couple of hours work before going to bed myself. Most of my clients were thrilled for us when we’d brought Harrison home and I announced that I’d be lightening my workload to be a stay-at-home dad, but they still expected me to deliver.
I automatically checked the clock as I walked out of the nursery with the baby monitor—just before six thirty, like clockwork. If I wasn’t so exhausted, it would almost be charming.
I never turned my computer off, so all I needed to do was wiggle the mouse and the screen blurred into life. I loaded up my e-mails first of all, while rubbing my hands over my face and wishing for coffee. As of this morning, we were out, and I hadn’t had a chance to run down the block to the bodega yet. There weren’t even disgusting sugary sodas in the fridge. I hadn’t bought them in years. Oliver had said they were bad for my teeth, so I’d stopped.
I’d stopped doing a lot of things at Oliver’s insistence.
I was convinced there were never less than ten unopened e-mails in my inbox; tonight there was twenty. I didn’t have time to read them all, so I quickly scanned the few that looked important before switching over to my design window.
The graphic design business that I owned and ran was still simmering on the verge of being successful. I was closer to making it big before Harrison came along, but there was no way I was going to cut back on time with my son to spend more time at work. I’d made the commitment to be a full-time parent, and I was damn sure I was going to keep up my end of the bargain. Even if Oliver wasn’t holding up his.
With the volume on the baby monitor turned up, I quickly set some of my own music on to play, although Metallica at such a low volume was fairly pointless. I still wasn’t sure where the Tom Waits record had come from—I didn’t remember buying it myself, but Oliver hadn’t taken it with all his things when he’d moved out. Once upon a time, Oliver used to tease me about being a metalhead, but my taste in music was fairly wide reaching. I liked grunge and classic rock and sleaze too.
I worked until my eyes felt itchy and my clicking finger was actually cramping up. A quick glance at the clock told me it was just after one in the morning. The fact that Harrison hadn’t woken up yet was both a blessing and a curse—it took him longer to settle in the middle of the night than at any other time, but that meant he’d probably wake up in the morning by about five. That gave me four hours to cram in some sleep.
There was no point in showering or even changing into pajamas. I flopped, facedown, onto the bed wearing the boxers and T-shirt I’d been wearing all day. Within moments I was asleep.
Mornings were a cheerful affair, for Harrison at least, who woke up happy ready to brighten my day before it had even begun. I wasn’t a morning person and never had been. Like so many other things, parenthood changed this about me too.
I managed four and a half hours sleep, a blessing, since I woke to a text message from Meg, who said she was on her way with pastries and coffee. I sent a silent prayer of thanks to whatever God was listening.
She knocked on the door sharply at six thirty, and I opened it to her slightly bleary smile.
“Why are you up so early?” I asked, stepping aside to let her in.
“Early meeting,” she said and yawned widely. “Well, it was supposed to start at seven, but they called to let me know it’s been delayed til ten. Bastards.”
I was sure I heard her words, although my senses were full of the smell of coffee, blocking out anything else.
“Coffee?” I croaked.
She gave me a steady glare. “Have you been pulling all-nighters again?”
“No,” I said, and it wasn’t exactly a lie.
The two takeaway cups were huge, packed with enough caffeine to push me into wakefulness. I took the first scalding sip and groaned with pleasure.
“Well, you look like shit, Ellis,” Meg said as she started on her own drink and split the paper bag that contained the rest of our breakfast.
“So do you.”
Meg was one of the few people I let into my home and my life on a regular basis. She was a colleague too, sending a lot of work my way from the international advertising agency she worked for. All my fears about combining work and friendship had melted away when I started working with Meg. She was professional to a fault, terrifyingly organized, and incredibly specific as to her wants and needs. It meant we were always on the same page, and I delivered projects for her on a regular basis.
In my darkest hours I had wondered whether I could ever turn straight for Meg. There was no doubt that she was exactly the sort of person I’d want to raise a child with, and I had no idea how she was still single.
I could only guess that men were intimidated by her personality—big and open and startlingly honest. It would take a man with a lot of balls to deal with a lifelong feminist, activist, and badass like Meg. She didn’t give a shit what anyone thought about her and wore her curves with pride, her tattoos with vanity, and her untamable auburn curls in a mane around her face.
I loved her something fierce.
I bit into a chocolate croissant and groaned. “I love you.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she said, her mouth full of pastry. “Where’s the kid? I wanna smooch him.”
I nodded toward the living room, where Harrison was set up on a blanket with some toys, listening to the Beatles. Meg left her coffee on the counter and went to sit next to him, pulled my son onto her lap, and pressed a big kiss to his head.
It was my chance to lean back for a moment and let her be the adult in charge. She was Harrison’s godmother and one of the few people outside my family I was happy to leave him with. Our plan for the day included a trip to the grocery store, which would take ages, and possibly stopping in to see my mom on the way home.
A visit to my mother meant the inevitability of listening to her “I told you so” lecture, something I’d grown depressingly famili
ar with in the past few months. She meant well but had never understood my sexuality or why I felt the need to get married and have a child. There had been endless “It won’t work out, Ellis” conversations before the wedding, which had been replaced by the endless “I told you sos” since the divorce.
But a quick visit would stop her constant phone calls asking when she’d see her grandson again, so it was a small price to pay in the grand scheme of things.
If I could get Harrison to take a nap in the afternoon, then I could maybe get another hour of work done, meaning an extra hour of sleep. Or we could both just take a nap. It was wishful thinking—Harrison had never been a good daytime sleeper.
“So, I came over to ask you something,” Meg said from the floor, where she was distracting Harrison with a bunch of brightly colored keys.
“Go on.”
“Everyone’s going out the weekend after next. Come out with us.”
I sighed and rubbed my fingertips over my eyelids. This wasn’t the offer of another job that I had been expecting, and sort of hoping for. Money was tight, as always. “I can’t, Meg. You know that.”
“Please, El. There’s going to be loads of people there. It’ll be fun.”
“Will loads of people include Oliver?” I asked.
“No.” She looked offended. “I wouldn’t invite both of you. You should know that.”
I shrugged. “He was your friend first.”
It had to be one of the worst things in my postdivorce life: not knowing who was still my friend and who was exclusively Oliver’s now. After making the mistake once already, I wasn’t excited to get burned again.
“He stopped being my friend when he left you and Harrison,” Meg said gently. “I haven’t seen him in forever. To be honest, I don’t think he wants to show his face around us.”
“Good.” There was no spite in my words. Oliver could go to hell as far as I was concerned.
“So come out,” Meg said, giving me a winning smile. “You can get a sitter for one night—”
“I’m not letting a stranger take care of my son.”
“Then send him to your mom’s. For one night, it won’t kill him. Plus, I’m sure she’d love to have him.” No one suggested taking him to Oliver, and for that, I was grateful. Then she pulled out the big guns. “It’s my birthday, El.”
“Oh, shit. I’m sorry, Meg….”
“It’s fine,” she said, quick to reassure me. “You’ve had more important things on your mind than remembering.”
I shook my head. “I’m such a horrible friend.”
“You’re not pulling that feeling-sorry-for-yourself bullshit with me, El,” she said. “It really doesn’t suit you. Come out. Zane will be there.”
“Am I supposed to know who that is?”
“Shit, I forgot you didn’t meet him yet!” Meg gave me a slow, knowing smile. “I bet the two of you will get along just great.”
“You’re not setting me up with some other guy,” I said. “I’ve only been divorced ten minutes.”
“It’s been three months, Ellis.”
I waved her words away.
“Same difference. So, you’ll come?”
“I’m seeing my mom later. I’ll mention it to her, see what she says.”
“Awesome. Text me,” she said, putting Harrison back down on the blanket and then rising to smooth out the wrinkles in her elegant blue dress. “I’ve got work to do.”
I gave her a kiss on the cheek before letting her out of the apartment. I’d been blindsided by Meg Carpenter once again, not that I should be surprised by that anymore. She was surprisingly good at it.
I took the rest of the coffee and pastry over to the living area and curled up on the couch to watch Harrison play for a few minutes before we both had a bath and got ready for the day.
“Well, little dude,” I said softly, “looks like Daddy’s going out partying.”
Harrison laughed and threw a plastic brick at me.
Chapter 2
It had been a long time since I had gone out socially, and I wasn’t about to admit how nervous I was. Well, I admitted it to Harrison, who was the only person around to listen, and he didn’t judge at all.
Before we got married and Harrison came along, Oliver and I used to go out all the time. We had a huge group of friends, and they were all artists and performers and writers like us—creative types—and it was good being able to surround myself with like-minded people.
With every breakup it’s inevitable that you lose some friends, retain others, and some will split their allegiance firmly down the middle. There wasn’t any way of knowing ahead of time which side of the fence someone sat on—mine or his—and no one was prepared to announce it publicly. Instead, you were forced to deal with the humiliation of ignored texts, unanswered phone calls, then the : humiliation of being unfriended on Facebook.
With nothing new to wear—spare cash was in short supply, especially for frivolous things like clothes—I pulled on an old, soft Henley, a pair of khakis, and a pair of beat-up old Timberland boots. It wasn’t exactly the height of fashion, but it would do.
I tried to tame my hair, a task that had eluded me since forever, and splashed on a bit of cologne. That was something else that went out the window once Harrison came along and I heard that babies don’t like strong smells.
“Will I do?” I asked him. His response was a string of babbled nonwords and a burp. Excellent.
Wallet, phone, keys in my pocket, Harrison’s diaper bag over my shoulder and the little man himself in my arms because I didn’t want to put him in the stroller, and I was all set. He was getting heavy now, but not too heavy that I couldn’t carry him the short distance to my mom’s.
“Are you going on a date?” she demanded as soon as she opened the door and surveyed my outfit.
“Christ, Mom, no. It’s Meg’s birthday. We’re all meeting in one of those hippy cafes you despise.”
Her lip curled, and she held her hands out for my son. I carefully handed him over, then shut the door behind myself so I could set up the travel crib in the spare bedroom.
Mom didn’t need me now that she had her grandson. I could hear her chattering away to him as I made my way upstairs. The spare room was the space that used to be my brother’s room when we were growing up, although Leo had moved out the same time I had, when I was twenty-five and he was twenty-three. These days it was decorated in a neutral pale blue, a stark contrast to all the band posters that had graced the walls during our youth.
It didn’t take long to set the crib up. It was fairly simple to do, and I transferred the small stuffed dinosaur to the corner. Rory had been Harrison’s nighttime companion since the day he was born, and even though he didn’t have much of an attachment to the toy yet, I certainly did.
“Okay, I’m outta here,” I called as I jumped the last three stairs, as I always had, and strode through to the living room. Harrison was set up in front of the TV with a baby cookie, and I had to remind myself that not everyone had the same ideals as me. TV wouldn’t kill him, nor would cookies, and getting into an argument with my mom for exposing him to both would be counterproductive.
Instead I leaned down, pressed a hundred tiny kisses all over my son’s face and head, then his belly to make him laugh, wiped his face out of habit, and smoothed his hair before walking away. He rarely, if ever, stayed away for the whole night, and I knew there was a strong possibility I’d end up letting myself into the house in the middle of the night and sleeping on the floor next to his crib. My mom didn’t mind. Or if she did, she’d never mentioned it.
“Thanks,” I said to my mom, but she held a hand up before I could launch into a speech of groveling gratefulness.
“Any time,” she said. “Seriously, Ellis. Hiding away isn’t doing either of you any good.”
I nodded.
“Have a good time. Be safe, be good, and if you come home tonight, try not to wake anyone up.”
I smiled and nodded again, silent
ly pressed a kiss to her cheek, and left before I was given the familiar lecture from my teenage years. I recognized the start of it and was keen to escape before she got to the “no drugs, no sex, don’t get too drunk, don’t get into an unlicensed cab….”
The cafe was on the other side of Brooklyn from my mom’s place, but I had left early, so there was time for me to walk there. Having time to myself to just walk and breathe on my own was just as rare as a night out without the baby.
My mom had lived in Carroll Gardens in Brooklyn all her life in the house she inherited after her parents passed away. We were distantly Irish American, although over the years any trace of my family’s heritage had been lost in the melting pot that was New York. I’d been born and raised in the city with my younger brother and had longed for the country as a child, desperate to be able to play outside without my mother watching us like a hawk, constantly worried for our safety.
Even when I’d gotten older and had the choice to move away, I’d stayed close to my mother and brother, who would never leave the city. I still dreamed, these days, of taking my son away from the noise and the hustle of city life. Maybe when he was older. Maybe when I didn’t rely so much on the people around me to hold me together.
The air was still slightly warm, warm enough for me to push the sleeves of my shirt up to the elbows. I stuck my headphones into my phone and put on some obnoxiously loud music, and it took less time to get there than I’d anticipated.
The cafe, as we called it, was a bakery by day that turned into a boutique restaurant at night. I’d always thought the best time to go there was some point in between. After five, any of the food from the day was sold off at half price, but you could get it with a beer instead of a coffee. It was artsy, as everything in this corner of the city was, with a big red counter, and a cast of staff with varying degrees of extreme hairstyles, facial piercings, and tattoos, all of whom were part-time employees and worked as something else when they weren’t waiting tables.
