Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 162947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 543(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 543(@300wpm)
What could’ve been. What should’ve been. What was inevitable.
I push it all away because none of it matters anymore. Only what is.
She’s here.
I’m here.
We have a son.
And should she need another reminder of our relationship, she’ll find it next time she looks at her phone.
4
Kennedy
OBERON AT THE BOTTOM OF THE GARDEN
“Mom?” I find Wilder’s fingers wrapped around mine, his blue eyes staring up at me as Moose bounces around my feet like a dog that isn’t nearly twelve years old. “Shush, fuzzball,” he says, scooping her up.
“We put her harness on too early,” I say, hoping to redirect the conversation, which I guess is a little like trying to prevent the inevitable. “Time to hit the road, kiddo.” Not once before in his entire life have I called Wilder kiddo. Way to make things weird with your seven-year-old.
“Mom, who was that man?” Like I said, inevitable. “He acted like he knows you.”
“He’s renting the pixie house.” I blow out a slow breath, knowing I need to tread carefully. God only knows what happens from here. And, well, I need to be sure not to say anything I might need to retract or contradict later because, as well as perceptive, my kid has the memory of an elephant.
“Does he know you?” he persists.
“Seemed like it, didn’t it?” I grab Wilder’s backpack with a shaking hand as I try to come up with a better answer. “Wilder, honey, can we talk about this later?”
My son’s blue eyes study me, and I suddenly want to cry. This isn’t the way things are supposed to be. I’m supposed to comfort him, not the other way around.
“Okay,” he answers eventually.
I cup his chin in my hand as relief, cool and sweet, sweeps through me. “It’s just been a long day.” Long doesn’t even cover it. I love my son more than life itself, and I get a kick out of working in my own little empire, but there are days when a cool glass of wine is calling my name. And then there are rare days like today where the amount of wine needed to blot out the day comes with the risk of alcohol poisoning.
“Are you angry with Jenner?” My blue-eyed boy studies me.
“No, sweetie.” No more than usual, I think, swinging the backpack over my shoulder. The man has been uncharacteristically quiet for the last twenty minutes, even going so far as to offer to close up, which I know just means he’s trying to butter me up.
“If you’re tired, we should have pizza for dinner. Treat yo self,” he adds with a gap-toothed grin.
“Treat myself?” Wilder nods enthusiastically. “Remind me, who is it who lives for pizza? Was it me or you?”
“I don’t live for pizza. I just love it,” he says, giving a little jump.
“And I love you, so I guess we’re eating pizza for dinner.”
In response, Wilder buries his face in Moose’s fur with a triumphantly whispered, “Yes! Skin it?” He thrusts out his pinkie, and I link it with mine.
“When have I ever lied to you about pizza?”
“You never lie to me, Momma.” A fist tightens around my heart at the conviction in his words. For a mad moment, I want to drop to my knees and confess, purge. But then I remember I’m a parent, and he’s my child. The child I’d prefer not to traumatise. “Can we have jojos?” Unaware of my inner turmoil, he begins to spin on the ball of his foot, making Moose spin after him.
“Don’t push your luck.”
“But Jenner loves jojos,” he says, coming to a halt.
Pizza nights usually include that reprobate. While I’d rather explain Roman’s appearance to Jenner sometime never, it’s clear I am going to have to say something. Or more evasiveness, I guess. Or maybe just a little less. My stomach turns uncomfortably as Wilder pulls on my hand.
“Momma?”
More terrifying than explaining things to Jenner is the task of telling my son.
“Jenner’s working his second job tonight.” He was so cranky earlier because he works Friday nights in the pub across the way.
“I can come on over after my shift.” My head snaps up to find Jenner’s disembodied head poking through the beaded curtain.
“But it’ll be cold by then,” Wilder answers quizzically.
“Cold pizza is my jam, little man. I love the stuff.” Moose darts around Wilder, causing him to turn to untangle himself, giving Jenner the perfect opportunity to insert, “But not as much as I love torrid tales of love.”
Torrid is certainly the right word. “I’m not staying awake to talk to you all night,” I grumble. I’m also not loaning him anymore of Nana’s racy romance novels.
“Be there by nine,” he promises, giving me big puppy dog eyes.
“Fine. But you have to vacuum before locking up.”
“Honeybun, I would lock up, vacuum, wipe down all the tables, and clean the windows for a whole year just for this.”