24. Tess
TWENTY-FOUR
TESS
One thing they don’t talk about enough in parenting books is the importance of a strong poker face. Teaching emotional awareness is essential, but sometimes I just can’t let August see my real reactions. Like how I’m supposed to treat every alert on his continuous glucose monitor as benign, without freaking out or seeming upset, no matter how urgent. Or how I shouldn’t laugh when he wishes people luck, but he says it “Good yuck.”
Or right now, when I’m about to hand my child off to someone new for the first time.
Someone I’m deeply attracted to and caring more about by the day. Who maybe, possibly, cares about me, too.
When I called Amy to get her vote of confidence yesterday, she offered it easily. Like she’d told me before we moved in, Ian’s a good guy. Trustworthy and capable, if fairly inexperienced with kids. But she tacked on an extra part this time that I can’t stop thinking about.
“Ian hasn’t wanted to do much of anything in a long time,” she’d said. “If he’s offering to help you out by watching August for a few days, that means something.”
“What?” I’d asked, even though I was halfway to the answer already.
She laughed softly as though she could read my mind. “It means you’re important to him. You both are.”
So I’m definitely trying extra hard to seem perfectly normal and not at all smitten when Ian knocks on my door just after five-thirty a.m.
But then I open the door. Something about him looking sleep-rumpled and bleary-eyed, standing on my doorstep holding two steaming mugs of coffee, makes me want to cuddle up with him. As though taking time for a morning snuggle is a thing we could actually indulge in.
My poker face had better be doing the absolute most right now.
His mouth tilts into the smallest smile. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want a coffee. It’s black.”
“I would love one, thank you.” I take the mug he offers me, cataloguing the way our fingers brush during the hand-off and the current of electricity that seems to arc between us. That’s a better rush than the caffeine. “Come on in.”
“Hi, Ian!” August waves from the dining table where he’s finishing his egg and cheese breakfast quesadilla. Looking past us, his expression falls. “Where’s Dutch?”
Ian chuckles softly. “He’s sleeping in. We can take him outside later.”
“Okay.” August kicks his feet, content with this plan. We talked last night about how he needs to be on his best behavior for Ian. Fingers crossed he doesn’t start repeating that bad word his aunt Wren accidentally said in front of him last week and give Ian the impression I’m raising a foul-mouthed little sailor.
Actually…I should probably cross my fingers he doesn’t learn new words from Ian, either.
I open a cupboard in the kitchen to pull out a ceramic honey pot and add a generous drizzle to the coffee Ian brought for me.
“I should have predicted that,” he says.
I glance at him as I take a sip. Mmm. Perfect. “What?”
“That you like it sweet.” He sounds amused and maybe a little fond.
A weird thing for me to pin on a man for noting my coffee preferences. Definitely the effects of having him in my space before the sun has even crested the mountain peaks. While he’s wearing sweatpants and an old T-shirt that looks oh-so soft and touchable.
I take another sip of my coffee before I give in to the urge. “You should see my order at Perk Me Up. White chocolate, milk chocolate, whipped cream, and a splash of vanilla.”
“Does it have any coffee in it?”
“I’ve never asked.”
His mouth tilts again into that not-quite-smile I’m growing addicted to. For a minute, we just watch each other over our mugs, drinking our coffees.
August pushes his chair away from the table, reminding me what I’m meant to be doing before I get too swoony over my guest. Although, I guess for the next few days, Ian’s not strictly a guest. He’s an unpaid caregiver. I offered him money for his time yesterday, but that brought his scowl back, so I dropped it. I’ll find some way to make it up to him eventually.
For now, I go into business mode and get out August’s medical kit. I show Ian the apps that monitor his blood sugar and insulin dosing. The juices and snacks in the fridge. How to track the food August eats, and menu suggestions for lunch. What to do if he needs to verify blood sugar levels with a finger prick. The emergency medication in case he goes hypoglycemic.
I look at everything I’ve laid out for him, the apps and monitors and emergency kit and lengthy note.
“This is a lot. Isn’t it?” Maybe too much.
Yesterday, when Ian said that August’s diabetes isn’t a problem, my heart puffed up with unfettered hope. I didn’t realize how much I’d needed someone to say those words. I want to trust him that it’s really no big deal, but aside from the women at daycare, I haven’t left August with anyone outside of Mom and Wren. They would understand if I called right now and told them the daycare had to close temporarily. I don’t have to force this on Ian.
“Tess.” He tilts his head closer until I meet his eyes. “I’ve got this.”
His deep voice settles the wave of anxiety in my stomach. He holds my gaze, his entire demeanor speaking to his confidence. He’s not afraid for me to hand over the reins. Not because he doesn’t understand the risks, but because he knows he can take care of whatever comes up.
And I thought seeing him shirtless got me going. Competent and in charge? Oof.
“You’re right. You’ve got this.” I really need to leave before I put on a sultry voice and ask him to tell me more about his medical certifications. I didn’t know that would do it for me, but on Ian, it works.
He nods, stepping backward. “We’re going to have a great day. Aren’t we, August?”
August hops around in the living room, apparently doing an interpretive dance to show his excitement about spending the day with Ian. It’s mostly butt wiggles.
“So great!” he confirms.
I join him and kneel on the rug. “I have to go to work, buddy. Have a good time with Ian and Dutch, okay?”
“Okay.” He gives me a huge hug, then squeezes my face in his hands. “I’m going to show him my Legos!”
Just like that, he’s gone. Probably to find the latest spaceship he made or the mini figure he assembled that looks like him. It’s got blond hair, a dinosaur on his shirt, and we painted white dots on the back of each arm for his monitor and pump.
“At least he doesn’t drag out the goodbyes,” I say as I stand again. “Legos are obviously fine, and he’s got loads of other toys in his room. Art supplies are in the linen closet by the bathroom. He can watch PBS Kids if he wants. We have movies in the cabinet.”
Ian steps closer, his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants. “I figured we’d watch either Toy Story or Predator .”
I flatten him with an unimpressed look. “Ha ha.”
“They’re pretty much the same movie.”
“I can’t imagine which version of Toy Story you watched.”
“They’re both about friends banding together against a common enemy.”
I consider that grossly oversimplified summary. “Isn’t every movie Predator when you define it like that ? ”
“I’m hearing yes to the Arnold Schwarzenegger movie marathon.”
I point a stern finger at him, but he lays a hand over his heart. “Don’t worry. I’ll stick with Disney.”
“Okay. I have to go to work.” I move for the door but turn around again. “I forgot. We should exchange numbers. I can see his apps on my phone, too, but you know. Just in case something else comes up.”
No need to start thinking of all the non-diabetes trouble August could get into. Ahem. Rattlesnakes .
We trade numbers, and I glance around, searching for anything else I’ve forgotten. I’m supposed to be at the bakery in ten minutes to start on the day’s pies and cupcakes. I can get there in time, but only if I leave immediately.
“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” And I don’t mean medically. Kids can be a lot, especially for someone who’s not expecting it.
He gives me a lazy nod. “I’m ready for anything.”
Here’s that cockiness again. It’s surprisingly cute. “ Anything ?”
“If he asks me where babies come from, I’ll probably choke. Everything else, we’re good.”
“So you’re saying you don’t know where babies come from.” Not sure where this flirtatiousness was hiding. Safe to say, the confidence he was radiating earlier brought it out. “Surprising.”
Ian takes a slow step closer until our faces are inches apart. The confidence has returned, and I am positively basking in it.
“Tess,” he says in his deep, low voice. His gaze tracks from my eyes down to my mouth. “Go to work.”
It’s a warning as much as a command. Because if I don’t walk out that door soon, I won’t want to leave at all.
Hope’s sigh is loud enough to carry through the bakery and her gift shop next door. “That’s the most beautiful wedding cake I’ve ever seen.”
Probably an exaggeration, but I’ll take the compliment.
She asked to see what I made for the couple at Moonlight Lodge, and this is my first chance to step away from our counter to show her the pictures on my phone. She swipes through the shots I took of the cake set up at the lodge, her gaze dreamy.
“I couldn’t have done it if you hadn’t given me that painting lesson.” Hope sells all sorts of handmade things in her store, but she’s an artist in her own right, too. She gave me a painting of August’s favorite lovey for my birthday last winter. Who knew a faded old ostrich could make me cry that much?
She hands me my phone back. “This is all you.”
I quickly swipe over to check August’s apps before I put my phone back in my pocket. His numbers are all in range and trending similar. I’ve texted to check in, and Ian said everything’s fine.
More than fine.
“Will you make my wedding cake? That style is perfect for us.”
“Oh…” I might as well be standing under a spotlight. Mom’s at the front counter, and I know she can hear us talking.
“We would pay you, obviously,” Hope rushes to reassure me. “I’m not asking for free cake. Whatever your rate is, I know it’s worth it. We haven’t set a date yet, but you’re going to be the first person I call when we do.”
“The audacity,” Wren says from across the bakery.
See? No privacy in here.
“Don’t tell Wren,” Hope says in a loud stage whisper.
“I guess I’m in the market for a new best friend,” Wren says. “Maybe I can join Ada and Isabel’s book club.”
“I’d go with you to that,” Hope returns. “I need to know what they’re reading.”
“It’s all smut,” Wren declares. Mom tsks at her, but she’s unrepentant. “You know it’s true.”
Mom apparently has no argument.
Hope keeps watching me, waiting for her answer. Will I make her wedding cake? To quote August: duh . I’ll be thrilled to be part of her big day with Griffin in any way I can.
“Obviously, I will make your wedding cake for you,” I tell her.
She grins, all happy sparkles, no doubt imagining herself getting married to her favorite handyman. They’re achingly happy, and I love it for them.
A bell rings on her side of the pass-through, and she backs away into her shop. “We’ll set aside time later to talk cakes!”
I return to the front counter, the giddiness of another wedding cake order tempered by Mom’s apprehensive look. This is what makes it tough. She’s not mean. She doesn’t tell me I don’t know what I’m doing, or that she hates my cakes, or that I’m a failure. She’s worried about me—about all of us—and that’s so much harder to argue with.
“I was always going to make Hope’s wedding cake if she asked.” A preemptive explanation seems like the best move here. I’m going to make the cake for her engagement party, too, but Mom will figure that out when she sees it.
“I don’t have any problem with that,” Mom says.
The but is implied. I hate implied buts.
Wren and I share a look. Waiting.
“It’s so much extra work for you to take on,” she finally continues. “I worry about you sacrificing time with August. That’s all.”
Her “that’s all” is a mountain of guilt. Wren hung out with August so I could get everything done for the Moonlight Lodge couple’s wedding cake. He loved spending extra time with his aunt, but he wasn’t with me. Should he have been?
I want to fight back. Point out that I have to step up as August’s mother and father. And I pay for everything. His up-to-date monitor and pump? They’re not cheap. That extra money goes a long way to cover what insurance doesn’t for his insulin and medical supplies.
And maybe I want to admit I need something for myself, too.
But Mom doesn’t need to hear it—she lived it.
“You were a single mom, too.”
“Yes.” She straightens the napkin dispenser on the counter. It’s her tell she doesn’t want to have this conversation, and I hate the sense of déjà vu it gives me. I am she. She is me. “And I relied on your grandparents with you girls. They’re gone now, so it’s just us. We have to make the best decisions we can for our family.”
Ugh. The scent of guilt in this room is overpowering. She’s doling it out, and I’m soaking it up like a sponge. I love our family and our business. I don’t ever want to jeopardize any part of it. And I hate that she thinks I might.
“I won’t do anything that would negatively impact August or our family.”
Mom squeezes my shoulder, her smile like someone offering condolences to the bereaved. “I know you won’t, sweetheart.”
We don’t say it, but we’re agreeing I won’t pursue my wedding cake business. We’ll maintain the status quo. I’ll be happy with my occasional special orders, and that’s it.
Disappointment curls and expands inside me like it’s trying to fill in all my cracks. It’s no less than I expected. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.
Her phone pings, and she startles out of her sorrowful encouragement. “That’s Hans with the fruit delivery. I’ll be in the back if you need me.”
Wren and I stare at each other a long moment after she’s gone. Trying to find the right words.
“This is some bull?—”
I shush her as if August is close enough to overhear.
She glares. “You know it is. You can’t pursue your own dreams? What about me? Can I chase mine, or is that forbidden, too?”
“What are your dreams?” Other than wanting to finally move out of the family home, Wren doesn’t ever talk like she’s missing out on something.
“I don’t know, but I’d like the freedom to have them if they ever make an appearance.” She slumps against the back counter, arms crossed over her chest. “You’re a good mom to August. It’s not fair to use him against you like this.”
“She’s trying to help me be practical.”
Wren snorts. “You don’t need help with that. Being practical is your whole deal. You need a shove into the im practical.”
I would love to argue, but I am self-aware enough to know I’d be a raging liar if I did.
She sighs, making a show of cracking her knuckles and stretching her neck side to side. “I guess that’s what I’m here for. I think you should open your own cake shop.”
My gaze goes straight to the swinging door that leads to the back, as if Mom’s as bad as Wren and is listening in. “I never even suggested that.”
“You should. Have you researched it?”
I scan the bakery, hoping against hope someone will walk in to interrupt this conversation. “No.”
Lies. I’ve looked at prices on storefronts, industrial ovens and refrigerators, website designers, the works. I’ve even spent more hours than I had to spare playing with logo ideas for Tess’s Cakes.
Not the best name but good enough for a completely imaginary shop.
“Then you should. Get serious about it. Write up a business plan for a loan. Tour buildings with Hope’s mom. Don’t give up.”
“I can’t do this right now, Wren.” I can’t talk about starting my own business when Mom’s in the next room. I can’t seriously entertain the idea anyway. The status quo is where I thrive. Not in taking risks and trying new things. “Please.”
“Fine. Tell me about the Ian situation.”
I’m ready to launch into my default “there is no Ian situation” when a customer walks through the bakery door. Finally . I exhale audibly, relieved I neither have to lie nor admit any part of the awkward truth.
Like… the Ian situation is he’s currently my fill-in babysitter, hanging out with August as we speak, and one back yard has never been the source of so much bonding before, and I’m afraid that every sweet thing he does just corkscrews him deeper into my heart, but I don’t actually know what to do with him once he’s in there.
Best to keep that to myself and just talk about fictional cake stores.