Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
ELLIOT
Too many dicks, not enough frosting.
I started rage baking the moment I got inside. After all, these penis-shaped cookies weren’t going to make themselves.
There’s something deeply therapeutic about baking when I’m mad.
Slamming the cupboards shut. Yanking open drawers.
Tossing measuring cups onto the counter with more force than necessary.
I grip the whisk like it’s a weapon. Flour flies through the air and dusts my skin, but I don’t care.
This is not your mother’s bakefest, this is war.
I don’t just cream the butter—I obliterate it. Sugar gets poured in like I’m salting a wound. And when I mix it all together, really giving my bicep a workout, I lean into it like I’m wringing the life out of stubborn men and their bullshit opinions.
By the time the dick cookies are in the oven, my pulse has slowed. By the time they’re cooling on wire racks on the kitchen counter, I’m no longer wishing I’d actually hit Arthur Stetson with my car on that first day.
I make an extra batch of frosting to decorate the phallic treats first thing tomorrow morning and do the dishes in our small kitchen.
I sigh when I realize that the sink is dripping again.
I grab my phone and set a reminder to ask Jess if I can borrow her tool kit.
Anything to not have to call our landlord.
The last time I asked Glen for something to be fixed, he mentioned a potential rent increase and I have been avoiding bothering him for anything since.
I follow the thumping sounds of bass-filled explosions up the stairs to Sam’s bedroom.
Video games are a fairly new interest for him.
He never had much interest in them before, but tried them at a friend’s birthday party a few months ago and was hooked.
Otters defenceman Ben Michaels, was only too eager to share another common past time with him.
He gave Sam his old console because I wouldn’t let him buy him a new one.
Ben and Sam met last fall through the Big Buddies program.
I was hesitant about enrolling him in the program that matches kids with role model figures, but it turned out to be an overwhelmingly positive experience for both of us.
Not only did Sam find a real friend in Ben, he found a good man who he can look up to.
On top of that, Ben was the one who recommended me for the physiotherapist position with the team.
He’s been such a blessing to both of us and I’m so grateful he came into our lives.
As I reach Sam’s room, another set of booms shake the walls. He’s been playing some sort of adventure on the high seas game and there’s frequent cannon fire.
“Permission to come aboard?” I ask, knocking efficiently on the open door.
“Permission granted,” he answers. He’s sitting at his computer desk, cross-legged on a kitchen chair he’s dragged upstairs, game controller in hand. He doesn’t look away from the old computer screen he’s hooked up to the X-Box. Another wave of cannons go off, and I feel the vibrations in my chest.
It’s a good thing there isn’t anyone living on the other side of this duplex, I think. Our last neighbours left months ago, before Sam picked up this rather noisy pastime.
I take in the space, noticing how much it’s changed in the last couple years. The Lego posters we tacked up together when he was seven are gone, replaced by one big poster of a band I don’t recognize. The guys on it are scowling and wearing more eyeliner than I did in high school.
His bookshelf is still crammed with thick fantasy books, video game guides, and a stack of chess manuals that look like they were written by old men who, unlike me, have probably never filed their taxes late.
I glance to the far wall, and see the chess posters are still there. Bobby Fischer. Magnus Carlsen. A newspaper clipping from the tournament Sam came first in last November.
Finally, there’s an Ottawa Otters poster Ben had signed by the entire team.
His signature is the largest right next to an arrow pointing to his own picture and the words “your favourite player.” Sam had rolled his eyes so hard when opened it at Christmas, but promptly hung it in a place of honour in his room.
“So,” I say, taking a seat on his twin-size bed. My finger finds a loose thread on the comforter and starts to play with it. “A sleepover at Rhett’s. That’s pretty exciting.”
“Yeah.” He pauses the game and sets the controller down on the scratched up desk. “Should be fun.” His hair falls unruly against his forehead and I have to fight the urge to swipe it away from his eyes.
“I like Rhett.” The two boys haven’t known one another that long, but their common interests have made them inseparable in the last few months.
“Yeah. He’s cool. His older brother goes to Waterloo. He said he’ll give me his email so I can ask him some questions.”
“Waterloo? Waterloo University?” I laugh as I bring my knees up and hug them to my chest. “What kind of questions?”
“Mostly about their Engineering program. I’ve been reading up on it. Thinking of doing my Bachelor’s degree there.”
I gape at him like a fish out of water. “Sam, you’re twelve years old.”
“I know that.” He smirks at me. His face is still so boyish, but you can tell he’s an old soul from his eyes. “You know me. I’m always thinking six moves ahead.”
More like six years ahead. Why is he looking so far into the future? And speaking of far—Waterloo? I know it’s a great school but it’s got to be a five-hour drive from Ottawa. I always pictured Sam going somewhere closer, like Queens.
“I’m sure I can get a scholarship,” he says quietly. He must interpret my panicked expression to be about tuition costs and I hate that his mind goes there first.
“Oh, don’t worry about that, sweetie.” While money is always a concern, that’s not why I’m freaking out.
Any university will be expensive and I have no doubt that my too-smart-for-his-own-good son will be eligible for a number of scholarships, like I was.
No, my stricken expression has more to do with the thought of him moving so far away.
“Or about any of this. You’re too young to be worrying about post-secondary education. ”
I know he won’t be a kid for much longer. But he’ll always be my kid.
“Anyway,” I hedge, desperate for a subject change. My tone is light, casual, but my brain is sprinting for the nearest conversational exit. “Did you learn anything new at school today?”
Sam shrugs. His expression doesn’t change. “Marcus thinks his dad is going to ask you out.”
I almost slide right off the side of his bed. “What?” Marcus is one of the few kids Sam actually talks about from school. I sift through mental files for his father’s name. “David?”
“Dean,” my son corrects. “Apparently, he asked Marcus if he could get your number from me.”
I scoff, waving a hand as though batting away the idea. “I’m sure he just wants to ask me a question or something.” Maybe he wants to arrange a sleepover too. Why does it suddenly feel like the entire universe is conspiring to peel my son away from me?
Sam isn’t done. “He also asked Marcus to find out if you had a boyfriend.”
My smile falters. “Classy,” I mutter, not sure I appreciate the man’s undercover methods. When was the last time I even saw Dean? The school fundraiser back in November, maybe? I can’t even remember what we talked about so it probably wasn’t exactly riveting.
“I can see it,” Sam says matter-of-factly, eyes back on the screen. “He looks at you a lot when he’s around.” My son has always been observant beyond his years.
“Does he?” I ask, more curious than I’d like to admit.
He nods without hesitation. “Yep. A lot of the dads do.”
I snort. “I haven’t noticed.”
“Did you notice Mr. Stetson staring at you today?”
That earns him a laugh. “Yeah, right.”
Sam gives me a rare grin. “He totally was.”
“Well, if he was, I’m sure it was because he was waiting for me to embarrass myself.
He probably expected me to fall on my face.
Or spontaneously combust.” Which, in a way, I guess I did—verbally.
I wince as I remember how I snapped at him earlier.
Not the smartest move, given he’s the head coach and I’m still in my probationary period with the team.
But did he have to be such an asshat? I didn’t know whether to kiss or kill him.
Kiss him out of gratitude for saving me when I was stranded. Not any other kind of kissing. Certainly not the kind with heavy panting and wandering hands. The man does have massive hands. I can only imagine how they’d feel roaming my body as he—
“I’d be okay with it, you know.”
I’m startled out of my brief fantasy, knocking over one of the books I’ve been absentmindedly straightening on his nightstand.
“Okay with what, sweetie?”
“You dating. It wouldn’t bother me. As long as the guy wasn’t a jerk.” There’s a bitterness in his voice that’s too heavy for a twelve-year-old, one I know by heart. Courtesy of his father. Shawn may have given me the best thing in my life, but he also left a trail of wreckage in his wake.
I soften my voice. “While I appreciate your blessing, I think that ship has sailed for me.” I nod toward the massive wooden galleon paused mid-battle on his computer screen.
“If you say so. But there’s plenty of other fish in the sea.” His grin is back as he picks up the controller. “Or so I’ve heard.”
I roll my eyes, moving toward the door. “Don’t stay up too late, okay, Captain?”
“Aye, aye, faithful scullery wench.”
My laughter echoes down the hallway.
“Oh, Mom? Can I have another cookie in my lunch tomorrow, please?”
I don’t miss a beat. “Sure thing, love. Good night.”
“Good night.”
I head down the stairs grateful that penis cookies can be decorated to look like rocket ships so easily.