“Yep,” Merry confirmed.
Breakfast forgotten, slowly, my kid swung his eyes my way.
Yeah, Merry just made it worse.
“Eat,” I ordered. “You’ll need as much fuel as you can get to rub it in to your friends how awesome you got it. But, just warnin’ you, I’ve been reconsiderin’ your diet. That might not mean broccoli, but I see vegetables in your future.” I looked to Merry. “That means yours too.”
“Mom!” Ethan cried.
“I like vegetables,” Merry muttered, and went back to his plate.
Ethan immediately stopped bitching and turned contemplative eyes to Merry.
At least there was that. I didn’t know if Merry’s proclamation that he liked vegetables would hold sway when Ethan was actually confronted with the real article. But at least it made him think.
“Eat,” I repeated my order. “Then you gotta wash up, get your shoes on, and get your stuff so you guys aren’t late.”
They ate, both my boys leaning against opposite counters in the kitchen of my boyfriend-of-two-weeks’ house where we were currently living.
Merry finished first and helped me do the dishes.
Ethan finished next, rinsed his own plate (the plastic kind you got in those sets at Target that cost nearly nothing, looked like shit, and felt like you were only one step up from eating off paper), and put it in the dishwasher.
Merry seriously had to learn the beauty of a yard sale.
“I’ll be back,” Ethan declared before he dashed to the bathroom in Merry’s hallway.
That was when I got in Merry’s space.
“Babe, gotta get my shoes and jacket,” he muttered even as he rested a hand on my hip.
“You do know you can never—not ever, not ever—break up with me now, no matter how I manage to fuck this up, because you just told my kid you have NFL Sunday Ticket,” I hissed.
First, Merry’s head jerked.
Then he stared down at me.
After that, both his arms closed around me so hard I slammed into his body and lost my breath as he busted out laughing.
I liked the sound. I liked the feel.
But I couldn’t breathe.
“Merry, you’re squeezing the breath out of me,” I gasped.
He instantly let me go. Then, just as instantly, both his hands framed either side of my head and his face was in mine.
“A spectacular early-morning fuck. A long shower. Damned fine eggs and toast. The promise of dude food, whatever the hell that is. And the first time I’ve laughed before eight o’clock in the morning since I can remember. Cherie, sweetheart, if this is you fuckin’ up, keep on doin’ it.”
Shit, he had to stop.
“God, I’m feeling warm and squishy again,” I bitched.
Merry started laughing again.
“Gross! Are you two bein’ gooey?” Ethan called with disgust from the living room.
“Yeah,” Merry answered, sliding his hands from my head to wrap his arms around me. “Your mom is funny. That deserves gooey.”
I stood in Merry’s arms, feeling a lot of good things, most of them about what Merry’d said, coupled with his hugs and laughter.
Then I stood and felt other things as I watched my son arrest, just standing there, his face slack, his eyes on us, but they were working.
And then I watched him grin.
Whatever just occurred to him, he intended to keep it to himself, and I knew this when he bounded to the couch I’d told him to fold up (and he did), plopped on it, and reached for his shoes.
“I gotta do the same,” Merry said, and I looked to him to see he was looking down on me. “Give me more gooey before I do it.”
I slid my eyes to my kid.
He was yanking on his sock.
I slid my eyes to my man.
He was looking at my mouth.
So I rolled up on my toes and gave him gooey by touching my mouth to his.
Merry’s eyes were happy and smiling when I rolled back.
Okay, maybe I could do this without fucking it up.
Maybe we could all do this without fucking it up.
That thought made me smile back.
This got me a squeeze from my man before he let me go.
He strode out of the kitchen on bare feet, came back in shoes while shrugging on his suit jacket and looking hot, and called out to my boy to get his shit for school and say good-bye to his mom.
Ethan already had his jacket on and was tossing his backpack over his shoulder, calling to me on his way to Merry and the door.
They both smiled and waved at me before they went out. They did this in different ways—Merry’s wave was low and cool, his smile handsome and hot; Ethan’s wave was high and goofy, his smile warm and sweet.
The door closed behind them.
Honest to God, watching all that, I knew it didn’t get warmer and squishier.
It just didn’t.
And I couldn’t imagine it ever would.
But for the first time in a long time, I was hoping.
Hoping hard.
Hoping I was wrong.
* * * * *
Garrett
Garrett sat in his truck outside Ethan’s school, watching the kid bounce toward the building in that way kids walked before they learned cool. Ethan was doing this twisted back toward Garrett, hand up, waving.
Smiling, he lifted his own hand and did a salute.
When he lost sight of Cher’s boy as he crawled along in the line of the cars of parents who’d dropped off their kids and were waiting to exit the school, he yanked out his phone and sent her a text.
Ethan’s good.