Chapter 20
Jules
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I mutter, moving through the apartment and trying to keep my voice low, so Gus can’t hear me.
Outside the windows, a gentle snow is falling, but the roads aren’t supposed to get bad.
In fact, it’s supposed to be unseasonably warm later today, once the sun comes out, and I was actually looking forward to spending time with Gus before my shift at the Christmas Market.
But now, I’m frantically sending out messages to babysitters in the area, cursing under my breath, and trying to ignore the nervous staccato of my heart.
“Shit,” I whisper, when yet another profile just doesn’t sit right with me. Twenty-year-old photography student, CPR-certified, loves working with kids. But something about her doesn’t feel responsible enough, and I swipe past.
“Fucking fuck,” I whisper, turning on my heel and pacing back up the hallway as Gus sits in the living room, watching cartoons, his limbs strewn about haphazardly in his Blue’s Clues pajamas.
I usually don’t swear in front of him.
But Ettie doesn’t usually cancel on me, either. I got her texts early this morning. At first, when I’d heard the phone buzzing, I’d thought it was Russell and picked it up with a thrill. Then I saw who they were really from.
Ettie: So fucking sorry dude, but D and I are both under the weather.
Ettie: Not sure it’s a good idea for Gus to come over today, wouldn’t want to mess with his heart stuff.
After so long of relying on her for babysitting, I’ve almost forgotten that she’s susceptible to getting sick, or having emergencies just as much as I am. And now I’m scrambling.
Ettie was going to watch Gus while Russell and I went to see his lawyer, then later while I worked with Sienna at the market.
Jules: Of course, totally understand. Feel better xx.
“Fuck,” I whisper again, just for good measure. It’s not the end of the world—I’ll have all day to find another sitter. But I barely trust Ettie to keep a close eye on Gus, to remember his limitations and what an attack might look like for him.
So, the idea of finding some random teenager might actually make me break out in hives.
And it’s not like I can bail on Sienna, either—it’s Saturday night, and we’re just a few
weeks out from Christmas. Each weekend, the market just gets busier and busier. And it’s not supposed to be blisteringly cold tonight, so it’s probably going to be busy.
While I wash the dishes and throw in a load of laundry, stomach rumbling from the lack of breakfast, I consider the possibility of bringing Gus with me. It’s not like there’s a lot of space in the booth, but he could sit under a table. Sienna and I could move around him. And if I bundled him up—
My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a gentle but firm knock at the door, and my heart swoops into my stomach. Russell is coming with breakfast before the meeting with the lawyer, and somehow I’d completely forgotten.
“Shit,” I whisper, and when I hear Gus’s giggle in the living room, I know that I’m ruining him with my swearing. Turning off the water, drying my hands, and quickly trying to push my hair back from my face, I call, “Coming!”
Russell stands on the other side of the door, looking like a model. He could easily play the dad in one of those commercials where the family comes outside to find a brand-new luxury car, topped with a huge red bow.
In a pair of snug jeans, a red and black plaid button-up, and a puffer jacket, he looks somehow both slightly rugged and cozy at once. I resist the urge to grab him and pull him in for a hug.
Of course, while he’s standing here, looking like this, I’m in a pair of old sweatpants and a large, weathered t-shirt from my high school volleyball days.
When he steps into the apartment, the smell of his cologne wafts past, and the cool air from outside seems to cling to him, dropping off his shoulders like mist from a mountain.
In his left hand is a drink carrier, and in his right is a paper sack, rolled up and surely containing my ham and Swiss croissant.
For a moment, I pause, realizing just how quickly and easily Russell has situated himself as an essential part of my day.
“Russell!” Gus says, standing up on the couch and throwing his body over the back.
His hair sticks up in every direction, and I wince, wishing I would have brushed his hair and got him ready for the day before Russell got here.
I’m not exactly thrilled with the image this paints for the doctor—local single mom, can’t get her shit together to save her life.
“No standing on the couch—” I say on impulse, but Russell’s already deposited breakfast on the counter and turns, grabbing Gus around the middle and lifting him up.
Russell says something low under his breath that sounds like what did your mom say about standing on the couch? as Gus laughs and squirms in his grip.
For a moment, the sight of them together—of Gus so comfortable with a man—makes my throat thick. Not for the first time, I think of the man at that gala, Gus’s father, wonder what he would say if I could find him and tell him about his son.
Ettie has assured me—based mostly on her own experience—that most men are deadbeats. That Gus and I are better off not knowing that kind of rejection. Dawson’s own father ran off the second he found out Ettie was pregnant.
But seeing Russell with my son makes me ache for something—for a partner. Another person for Gus to look up to. Our little two-person family has never felt like it wasn’t enough, but the relief I’ve felt with Russell being around isn’t something I can ignore, either.
I can’t shake the idea that I might be a better mom to Gus if I wasn’t so tired, so stressed all the time.
Setting Gus at the counter and laying out his breakfast, Russell looks up at me, his gaze quick and assessing. I expect him to ask if I’m going to get ready, but instead he tilts his head and asks, “What’s the problem?”
I ignore the way it feels, for him to read me so easily, and swallow, giving him an apologetic look, “We might have to reschedule the appointment with the lawyer. Ettie’s sick and can’t watch Gus today—”
“He can come along,” Russell says, straightening up and glancing down at Gus, who is eagerly ripping into a chocolate croissant. “If that’s okay with you.”
Is that okay with me? Gus might enjoy going downtown. I start to weigh the options, then remember, “It’s okay, but I still need time to find a sitter for him tonight. Ettie was supposed to take him for my shift at the market, and—”
“I can take him,” Russell interjects, lifting his hand, as though this much was obvious.
I think about how tired he looked the other day, when we came to see him after that surgery that ran long. “No—no, Russ, this is like your one day off, and I don’t want to—”
“If Gus wants to hang out with me,” Russell says, taking a seat on the stool and gently nudging Gus, who grins at him with a chocolate-smeared mouth. “Then that’s my plan for the night.”
I hold his gaze, stuck between how convenient this would be—who better to trust Gus with than a literal doctor?—and how much I don’t want to put him out.
When I made the decision to keep Gus, I royally pissed off my family.
My parents pushed me to get an abortion.
First, it was all about how bad it would look for them—their daughter having a child out of wedlock—then, when it was clear I didn’t care, it shifted to being about the burden.
That they wouldn’t have time, with their busy, public lives, to be babysitters, or to help out.
I’d held strong, and it meant choosing my unborn baby over my parents.
Since then, a lot of people have made it clear that the responsibility for my kid lies with me, and that’s made it pretty difficult to let go. Even learning to lean on Ettie took me years, and only because I take Dawson for her, too.
I push away the sudden overwhelm that always comes from thinking about my parents and swallow, trying to focus on Russell and Gus, this moment in front of me.
“Okay,” I finally say, when Russell holds my stare, making it clear that he’s not going to back down. Swallowing, I nod and ignore the sweet sense of relief in my chest. I can’t get used to it. “Okay, Gus, you want to hang out with Russell tonight?”
“Yes,” he says, through a mouthful of croissant, and Russell darts me a triumphant look.
“Right, with that settled, you’d better go put on something nice,” Russell’s tone has completely changed, morphing back into his commanding, self-assured voice.
He leans back against the kitchen counter and looks me up and down, sending a chill dancing up my spine.
“Remember, Mr. Grande will be expecting my fiancée to look the part.”
“Mr. Grande,” Russell says, the moment we step through the door and into the lawyer’s office. “This is my fiancée, Juliette, and her son, Gus.”
The lawyer—Mr. Grande—stands up from behind his desk and smiles at us. He’s an older man, with a thinning head of white-gray hair and watery eyes. He pushes his glasses up on his nose and holds out a hand to me.
“Very nice to meet you, Juliette.”
“Please, call me Jules,” I say, taking his hand and giving him what I hope is an appropriate, firm shake. When I step back, Russell casually slips an arm around my shoulders, and the effect is a warm, soothing calm drifting down through my chest.
Gus leans his weight back against my legs, looking up at the lawyer.
I can’t see his face, have no idea what he’s thinking about this interaction.
I haven’t come out and told Gus that Russell and I are together—I’m not even sure what he would think about that—but he also hasn’t asked me any questions.
It occurs to me that maybe I should have had a conversation with him before this meeting.
“Alright, Jules, and Gus,” Mr. Grande says, leaning down and offering his hand to Gus as well. Gus—to my surprise—reaches up and takes the lawyer’s large hand in his small one, shaking it with gusto.
“Are you a doctor?” Gus asks, which makes Mr. Grande laugh.
“No, no I am not,” he says. “Despite what you might think from the company I keep.”
“Russell is a doctor,” Gus widens his eyes, then glances at Russell surreptitiously, as though this might be new information for Mr. Grande.
“So, I’ve heard,” Mr. Grande laughs, nodding. “Seems like all my clients are.”
Gus unceremoniously finishes the conversation by turning and walking over to the toys under the window and dropping down onto his knees.
“What a bright young man,” Mr. Grande says, pulling his glasses from his face and wiping them with a little black cloth. “Now, shall we?”
He sweeps his arm over the desk and chairs, then turns and does an old-man hobble back to his own seat. He must be at least seventy, with his white hair and slow movements.
“Alright, well, as you know, we are here to discuss the terms of your father’s estate and if those terms have been met.” Mr. Grande clears his throat and shuffles around some papers on his desk, and I shift from side to side, trying not to look like I’m guilty of fraud.
All at once, the reality of what I’m doing settles over me—I’m lying about this relationship for personal gain. So Russell can get his inheritance. More than the fear of legal repercussions, I feel a sense of moral uncertainty.
Then, Russell reaches over and takes my hand, sandwiching it between his own and setting it on his thigh. It repositions my body, so I’m turned slightly toward him, my arm against his, and the warmth and contact soothe some of my worry.
Mr. Grande’s eyes dip to Russell’s hand, and something—pride?—moves over his face, a little too fast for me to catch.
Rather than feeling like an interview, talking with Mr. Grande feels more like meeting one of Russell’s old family friends. It’s clear that the lawyer has been working with the Burches for a long time, and might have even had a more friendly than professional relationship with Russell’s father.
Mr. Grande alludes to Russell’s childhood and asks us questions about how long we’ve been together. When I talk about how much of a relief it’s been to have Russell around, as a single mother, it doesn’t come off as fake or contrived.
And Russell talks about me.
“She’s a hard worker—juggling two jobs and raising Gus at the same time. I can’t think of a better role model for a kid.”
I know it’s just a show for the lawyer, but a little plume of pleasure swells up inside me at that perception. That Russell might think about me like that. That someone else might see and acknowledge how hard this has been for me.
And, for just a second, I wish that this whole thing was real. That I’d actually found a man who wanted to be a part of my little family.
A life in which another adult would be home, meeting me at the door after work. Someone to share a look with when Gus did something impossibly cute. Someone to help me not just take care of my son, but to take care of myself, too.
By the time the meeting is over, Mr. Grande seems to have completely bought our relationship, unless he’s just as good an actor as Russell.
He says good-bye to Gus, and we’re spit out of the cozy law office and onto the frigid Chicago street, standing in the bright sun and squinting against the light reflecting off white snow.
I tighten Gus’s coat and try to figure out what happens next—Russell said he would take Gus tonight, but we have two hours before lunch and the whole afternoon before then.
“There’s our ride,” Russell says, before I can ask him what time he’ll be able to take Gus. I straighten up and watch a car pull up to the curb, a black Mercedes like before the gala. Turning to us, Russell cocks his head and asks, “I’ve got a few free hours. Who’s up for some shopping? Lunch?”
I open my mouth to decline, to tell him that it’s already too much, everything he’s bought for me, but Gus is already leaping forward, his little boots thudding against the sidewalk.
“Me! Can we go to the dino place?” he asks, not even blinking when Russell catches him and keeps him from hitting the ground.
“Of course,” Russell says, righting Gus and taking a step toward the car, hand reaching for the door. The sun glints off his salt-and-pepper hair, his dimples popping, steely eyes shining when they meet mine. “If your mom is okay with it.”
As I climb into the Mercedes, and when Russell sits next to me, his thigh pressing against mine, I tell myself that I just can’t say no to Gus.
And there’s absolutely no other reason for why I gave in so easily.