Whit
The sound of a rumbling truck in the driveway interrupts my tunnel vision, and I blink at the clock in the corner of my computer screen.
“Oh, shit. How is it five o’clock already?” I say to myself, racing to save my work so I can log off before a coworker sees me online and asks for something.
The vibrations of voices reverberate up through the floor, one most definitely belonging to a grown man, rather than a ten-year-old.
Plunking my blue-light glasses down, I push back from my desk and head downstairs to thank Denny for dropping Jonas off.
One hand finishes tugging my hair loose from my scrunchie while the other grips the stair rail, and I step onto the cool hardwood of the open-concept main floor.
“Hey, thanks for—” My sentence falls short as I find myself face to face with Colt, rather than Denny. “Oh, hi. I thought it would be Denny dropping him off again. Um, thanks though.”
Jonas ducks under my arm to jet up the stairs. “Hey, Mom.”
“Hey, kiddo.” I give his hair a fleeting tousle as he passes by, my gaze perusing the tall man standing in my doorway. Thankfully, he’s wearing a child-appropriate vintage Bob Ross T-shirt today. A well-worn cowboy hat’s held at his side, tapping against his knee with each flick of his wrist.
“Denny was busy, so I offered to bring him home,” Colt says.
From the top of the stairwell, Jonas bellows, “Mom, I told Colt he could stay for dinner. He doesn’t believe I can catch fish in my game, so I’m gonna show him.”
Colt shakes his head. “No need to feed me.”
“No, you can stay…. Um, I lost track of time while I was working, but I’ll figure something out for dinner.” I fidget with the bow on my emerald-green tie-waist blouse. “Come on in.”
After hanging his hat on a coat hook, he saunters in with an easy smile, and I’m extra thankful Jonas wasn’t home today because the place is clean and shockingly doesn’t smell like a ten-year-old boy lives here. A rarity.
“Want something to drink? Beer? Wine?” I offer to Colt.
Jonas’s feet thud overhead as he grabs things from his bedroom.
Colt leans a hip against the edge of my kitchen island, running the backs of his knuckles down his harsh jawline. “Water’s great, actually.”
I set a full glass of cold water in front of him, and Colt’s voice is surprisingly soft when he thanks me for the drink.
For the most excruciating few heartbeats, my stomach flip-flops as if I’m on a boat, sent rocking through ocean waves thanks to his squinty-eyed smile.
Needing something to keep my hands busy while the two of us awkwardly wait for Jonas to come back, I reach for a cloth to wipe nonexistent crumbs from the countertop.
Aside from Dad and Alex, I don’t have men over.
Not only that—I don’t go on dates, hang out with male friends, or interact with attractive men in public.
And though no part of me is interested in this guy—despite his conventionally handsome face and seemingly muscular body—I don’t have a clue how to act around him.
“Thanks again for bringing him home,” I say to fill space. Jonas is taking ages, and I can’t possibly pretend to clean the pristine white counter for any longer without it being weird.
“It gave me a great reason to stop by Anette’s for the fifth time this week.”
My eyes meet his. Food is my love language. I can talk about that all day. “Cinnamon roll? They’re addicting.”
With a lick of his lips, he says, “God, those are good. What the hell does she put in them? But no, my go-to is the chocolate chip frappe drink Anette makes. She always adds extra chocolate chips and whipped cream for me.”
My nose involuntarily scrunches, and Colt clearly picks up on my cringe, because he adds, “Let me guess, you’re a black coffee drinker?”
“No cream, two sugar.”
“Whoa, settle down and save some fun for the rest of us.” His playful eyes peer at me above the rim of his water glass.
Just as something defensive prickles under my skin, Jonas bounds back down the stairs—a herd of elephants in one small boy—holding his video game. “I have it.”
He flings himself onto the couch, and when Colt leaves me to join him, I realize I still need to figure out dinner.
Within minutes I’m elbow deep in the freezer, icy knuckles stinging as they bump against frozen bags of vegetables and the occasional chocolate bar I’ve hidden from Jonas.
Seconds before I give up and order pizza, my fingers curl around a glass container, sticking slightly to the frosty surface.
It’s so cold it’s painful to grab, but I tug it out of the mess and triumphantly slam it down on the counter.
Hamburger soup.
Jonas always makes fun of me for freezing our uneaten dinners, citing the numerous times I’ve tossed perfectly good leftovers to make room in the small freezer for Costco-sized bags of chicken tenders and fries. Tonight he’ll eat his words and this six-month-old soup.
Once it’s in a pot on the stove, I grab a glass of water and lean against the counter, watching as Jonas lets Colt attempt to navigate the toggles and switches on his video game. He leans into Colt, heckling him for accidentally casting into a stand of trees, with a vibrant smile on his face.
“No, no, no. Oh my God.” Jonas slaps a palm against his forehead. “Bro, I thought you said you knew how to fish.”
“I do know how to fish. But this is definitely not fishing.”
Jonas flops backward into the couch cushions when Colt misses yet another cast. “Watching you play is exhausting.”
Colt sighs, handing the gaming device back. “Don’t you have a car racing game we can play together?”
“We can’t play multiplayer with only one handheld console. I hope my dad buys me a new PlayStation for my birthday.”
Steam billows out around the lid of the soup pot seconds before it billows out of my ears.
“Something smells really good.” Colt looks over his shoulder, running a hand through his shaggy brown hair. The casual comb messes it up just enough to hide the wavy indent created by his cowboy hat.
“Homemade hamburger soup.” I stir the delicious slop. It might not look like anything fancy, but I can guarantee it tastes amazing. If there’s one thing I’m confident in, it’s my ability to cook. “It’s almost ready.”
Jonas groans. “Soup is a winter food. Can we order pizza?”
“Soup is an always food, dude.” Colt’s palms slap against his thighs, and he stands up, giving each leg a little kick to straighten out his straight-cut blue jeans. “Let’s go help your mom set the table.”
A humored huff of air blows out of my nose. As if Jonas would set the table without argument.
“Nah.”
See?
Colt looks at Jonas, then at me. Suddenly it dawns on me that, although he’s technically more of Jonas’s guest than mine, he’s also an adult, and I should be trying to make a good impression.
“Jonas,” I say sternly. “Go wash your hands and set the table for dinner. Now.”
Miraculously, he drops the device on the cushion and shuffles toward the bathroom. Not without grumbling, but I’ll take it.
“Need a hand?” Colt sidles up next to me, peering over at the simmering soup.
“Thanks, but you’re a guest. Sit and relax.”
Minutes later, the three of us are slurping spoonfuls of soup around the kitchen table.
And it’s a far cry from the dinners Jonas and I usually have, with him sulking about being away from his online gaming buddies, inhaling his food so he can get back to them.
Instead, he’s taking his time, engaging in conversation with Colt about the video game they were playing before dinner.
“So what did you guys do today?” I ask when there’s a small gap in their conversation.
Jonas shrugs.
Colt sets his spoon down softly. “Busted our asses and ate ice cream as a reward.”
Tongue tucked into my cheek, I look at my son. “Ice cream, hey? Lucky kid.”
“I had cookie dough chunks in mine.” The corner of Jonas’s lip turns up in fond remembrance of the ice cream. “Hey, if Dad doesn’t show tomorrow, can I go fishing with Colt?”
The smile falls from my face, and I steal a glance at Colt, who’s entirely tense and pushing a chunk of potato around in his bowl to avoid becoming involved. I don’t blame him. He shouldn’t have to be involved in this uncomfortable-as-hell situation.
Why? Why do we have to have this conversation with somebody here?
“Jonas, your dad’s—”
He interrupts me. “He’s not gonna come. He always says he will and then has an excuse.”
My throat tightens. He’s right. I know it. He knows it.
Colt doesn’t. And he reaches for his drink in slow motion, careful not to draw any attention, watching me intently.
Waiting for me to say or do something that will confirm what he probably already thinks about me: I’m a failure of a mother and I picked a shitty person to have a kid with…
which, honestly, is true. But that doesn’t mean I need a strange man looking at me with this much pity.
This is so embarrassing.
“Jonas, can we talk about this later?”
“Whatever.” He gnaws his cheek, refusing to look at Colt or me. Silence stretches on like a loaded spring, until Jonas digs his palms into the table edge and pushes away, bringing dinner to an abrupt end.
I tilt my head, leaning forward to catch his gaze before he runs off. “Hey. If he can’t make it tomorrow, I’ll see if we can get Blair or Grandpa to give you a ride to the ranch.”
Softening his expression ever so slightly, he mumbles, “Fine.”
Colt looks up at me through dark eyelashes, a half-smile of recognition that this is fucking awkward.
A hunk of potato sits too heavy on my tongue, simultaneously lacking flavor and taking on a texture that makes my stomach churn.
I wash it down with a hearty chug of water, trying to focus on anything in the room besides Colt’s stare.
The moment it seems Colt’s done eating, I start stacking our dirty dishes, working quickly to end this dinner so he can leave.
I need to call Alex, let him know in no uncertain terms that he has to show up for his kid tomorrow.
He can’t keep making promises when he has zero intention of following through.
I can’t keep lying to my kid; can’t keep raising a human who will resent me for all of this.
And after I’ve lectured Alex, asked Blair to help me out again, thought up a way to make it up to Jonas when tomorrow inevitably goes to shit, and tucked my sleeping boy into bed, then I’ll cry.
I’ll switch on the dryer, shut the laundry room door, and fall apart until I can’t tell if my eyes are burning from lack of tears or exhaustion.
Colt beats me to grabbing the stacked bowls and follows me around the end of the island. After a quick glance toward Jonas, confirming he’s distracted with gaming, Colt says in a low tone, “Uh, I can pick him up. Y’know…if his dad doesn’t show…I’m happy to take him fishing.”
“He’ll show up.” I shake my head. “And besides, that’s really far out of your way.”
“Hey, just another excuse for a frappe, right?”
“Even still. That’s too much to ask.” I take the soup bowls from his hand and organize them on the dishwasher rack.
“You aren’t asking. I’m offering.”
“Thank you, but Alex is coming tomorrow to take Jonas for the day.” I give the dishwasher a tap with my foot to close it and turn to Colt. “He’s really busy with work, so sometimes he reschedules, and Jonas takes it personally. But…yeah, no worries about tomorrow.”
I haven’t lied this blatantly—or this well—since I was a teenager bullshitting my parents.
“Thank you again for the offer, though.” I hope my resting bitch face and firm voice are enough to end this discussion.
But Colt reaches into the back pocket of his jeans for his phone, and his eyes meet mine with a glimmer of understanding.
“What’s your number? I’ll text you right now, so you can let me know if there’s ever a time Blair can’t drive Jonas to the ranch and he needs a ride.
Or, ya know, if there’s an emergency or something. ”
Honestly, it’s not a bad idea to have each other’s phone numbers, especially if Denny is going to make a habit of putting Colt in charge of Jonas.
If Jonas gets hurt, I want him to be able to get to me immediately, rather than tracking down Denny or my sister first. So I recite my cell phone number, watching as he carefully taps the phone screen.
Seconds later, my phone pings and, in Pavlovian response, I pull my cell from my pocket despite knowing it’s him.
555-229-0320: It’s not too much to ask. Promise.