Chapter 3
THREE
RAY
Incessant chimes followed by soft buzzing stir me awake, and I groan into my pillow. Eyes heavy with sleep, I blindly reach in the general direction of my current archnemesis and slap anything and everything on the nightstand until the alarm quiets.
Five more minutes.
When the alarm blares again, I curl the pillow around my head and pin it to my ears for one, two, three jolted heartbeats. On a heavy sigh, I release the pillow, shut off the alarm, throw back the covers, and force myself upright.
Last night’s conversation with Mom weaseled its way into my dreams. Woke me up a time or two. Stole a decent chunk of the fleeting sleep I get on film nights. Still has my mind whirling with questions, possible solutions, and how this will impact my role at the restaurant.
Swinging my legs off the bed, I drop my elbows to my knees, head in my hands. “There has to be a way,” I grumble into my palms before combing my fingers through my hair.
Tons of single parents work forty to fifty hours a week and still have time with their child. Granted, most of them probably work while school is in session and only miss an hour or two together after school ends.
Unfortunately, I don’t have the luxury of working anything other than nights. Aside from private parties and events, Calhoun’s Bistro only serves dinner. Early afternoon to midnight is a typical workday, and I don’t see any way around it.
As Mom suggested, I’ll talk with Chef Beaulieu later. I may not see a feasible resolution, but André’s mind is always firing off new ideas.
Rising from the bed, I cross the room for the dresser, grab a pair of sweats, and tug them on. After my morning bathroom routine, I pad across the hall to Tucker’s room.
“T-Man,” I call out softly from the door. He squirms but doesn’t wake fully. I step into the room and go to the foot of his bed. “Tucker. Time to get up, bud.”
A displeased grumble filters through the room, and I clamp my lips between my teeth to keep from laughing. Early mornings—one thing Tucker and I would happily forfeit if given the chance.
I rest a hand on his foot still under the covers and give it a little jostle. “Going to make breakfast, bud. Any requests?”
At this, Tucker’s eyes ease open. He blinks a few times then nods. “The pancake cootie tray.”
We usually rotate through a list of breakfast options on weekdays. Most mornings, Tucker wants cereal. Occasionally, he asks me to cook. Weekends are reserved for entertaining breakfasts, visits to the diner, or creating something new with Tucker. Sunday, we make a list, load a cart at the grocery, and restock the fridge and pantry.
A couple weeks ago, Tucker asked for pancakes. Rather than make him the usual stack with a side of fruit, I assembled a pancake charcuterie board. I piled it high with toppings—butter, syrup, a handful of seasonal fruits, chocolate chips, hazelnut- cocoa spread, peanut butter, whipped cream, and caramelized cut apples.
When he slid onto his seat at the table, I’d never seen his eyes so wide or bright. He loved every minute of that breakfast. He tried to pronounce charcuterie twice before giving up and calling it cootie instead. I didn’t have it in me to correct him. Instead, I melted at the sight of my little man happy at something so simple yet memorable.
I tap the footboard of his bed twice. “One pancake cootie tray coming up.”
While I head for the kitchen, Tucker goes through his own morning routine. One he didn’t need me to set, but I made a few adjustments to.
It broke my heart that my little man had to grow up faster than most kids his age. His mom loaded him with burdens far too early.
Over the past year and a half, I learned Brianna never made him breakfast—or any meal. If he wanted to eat, he had to figure out how to make a meal with what was in her apartment. When he went to school, he found out what hygiene was because other kids said he smelled, and the teacher pulled him aside. Tucker learned basic life skills before third grade and was responsible for his own well-being.
My stomach sours every time I think of the mayhem Brianna put him through.
I wish I could turn back time and change the past. Suggest moving to Stone Bay sooner. Be insistent yet reasonable. I wish I had heard Brianna packing that night, woken from the slightest noise, and stopped her from taking Tucker. But more than anything, I wish I was able to save him from years of traumatic experiences and me from trust issues.
Regrettably, the past is irreversible. All I can do is focus on the present and how it molds the future.
As a single parent, my work schedule needs a massive overhaul. No sense in denying it. But I do everything within my power to let Tucker be a kid now. When he helps in the kitchen, I reiterate it is my job to get groceries and prepare meals. Although he knows laundry basics, I make sure he’s aware it isn’t his responsibility to put his clothes in the washer, start the load, then move them to the dryer after.
Of course, he has chores. But they’re standard chores kids his age have—clean up after yourself, tidy your room, dirty clothes in the hamper, help clear the table after a meal. As he gets older, I’ll tack more on. For now, I just want him to enjoy his childhood. You only get so many years to be a kid, to live a more carefree life. Kids shouldn’t bear the same pressures as adults. They’ll have decades to shoulder all that stress.
As Tucker steps into the kitchen, I slide the last batch of pancakes onto the cutting board. Fruits and the other toppings decorate the rest of the space. A cup of juice sits in front of his plate and coffee in front of mine. The timer on the range beeps as Tucker takes his seat at the kitchen island.
Bacon sizzles as I pull the pan from the oven. Hickory wafts through the air as I add the strips to a plate, take the seat beside Tucker, and set the plate between us. “In case you want something salty.”
“Ooh. I’m gonna make a pancake sandwich.”
A hum as my shoulders cave, the first sip of coffee works its magic. From the corner of my eye, I watch Tucker as he assembles his own breakfast creation.
Tongue peeking out, he hesitates on what to add next. When he slaps a pancake on top and makes a ta-tum sound, I twist his plate and study his masterpiece. Pancakes in place of bread, a thick layer of peanut butter on both cakes, banana slices, mini chocolate chips, and several strips of bacon—it reminds me of Elvis.
I manage to bite back my laughter as he eats the messy breakfast sandwich too big for his mouth. Crumbling in his hands and falling onto the plate, Tucker carries on, undeterred. Before long, he swallows the last bite and finishes his juice. Without me asking, he takes his plate to the sink, rinses it, and puts it in the dishwasher. He comes back for his cup, but I shake my head.
“Finish getting ready. I’ve got the rest.”
His forehead wrinkles for a second, then he nods. “’Kay.”
I finish my breakfast, drink the last of my coffee, and start clearing the counter. Once the leftovers are stowed and the dishes are in the dishwasher, I head upstairs for a shirt and shoes.
As I near the bedrooms, Tucker says something in a hushed tone. Curious what he’s up to, I tiptoe toward his cracked door and peek inside. Sitting on his bed with his back to the door, he has something small and red in his hand. A toy car, maybe? He holds it but doesn’t play with it.
I angle my head to hear him better.
“Today will be a good day,” he says softly. “If someone is mean, it’s because they’re having a bad day. Their madness isn’t my fault.”
As quietly as I approached, I retreat. Entering my room, I close the door and slump against the wall. My rib cage contracts, compresses, feels too small for my lungs. I press the heel of my hand to the center of my chest, a doleful ache blooming beneath it as my heart weeps.
Someone is bullying my little man?
The room blurs as the backs of my eyes sting. The ache beneath my sternum morphs into a million little pinpricks, jabbing over and over.
Is this why he acts out at random? A classmate picks on him. Says cruel, detrimental things.
A different sensation surfaces and takes hold. My nostrils flare as my nails dig into my palms. Sweat licks my skin, a turbulent heatwave pulsing, expanding, staining my neck and face. Red clouds my vision, my rage a molten hydrothermal vent ready to burst.
A growl rattles my chest as I close my eyes and take a slow, measured breath. Then another. And another until the fiery storm wanes.
Regardless of my anger, I can’t approach this with a hot head. With Tucker’s past, I need to tread lightly. Find a way to broach the subject in regular conversation. I want answers but can’t demand them.
Talking with the toy must be an outlet. A way to release the hurt. Say what he feels in a safe space. The last thing I want Tucker to think is I eavesdrop on his privacy. He deserves refuge. A space free from harm or intrusion.
Instead, I’ll talk with Mom and Dad. Ask if he mentioned anything after school yesterday. Then I’ll reach out to Tucker’s teacher. Question if there’s a bully in the classroom. Bring this shift in Tucker’s behavior to their attention.
Shirt and shoes on, I exit my room and act as I do every other school day. “Train leaves the station in five, T-Man.”
“I’ll be down in a minute,” he hollers.
As I pocket my wallet, he flies down the stairs. We exit the house through the garage and hit the road a minute later.
Every cell in my body begs me to pry. To ask him if a classmate is harassing him. Somehow, I bite my tongue and resist the urge. When we reach the only stoplight in town, I turn on music and let the upbeat track steal my attention.
Two songs later, I steer the car into the school drop-off line. Tucker kicks his feet to the music and mumbles the lyrics. Bops his head, the corners of his mouth turned incrementally upward.
This is the most at ease I’ve seen Tucker since I got him back. I soak up every single second.
Is this because of his talk with the red toy?
As we inch forward, the need to say something surfaces. “You excited for summer, bud?”
He stares out the backseat passenger window and shrugs. “I guess.”
I wait, but he doesn’t elaborate.
“When I was in school, I counted down the hours during the last week. I was so excited to play outside all day and sleep in.”
“Yeah,” he says wistfully, his feet stilling. “Will you be home?”
That constriction in my chest from earlier makes a rapid comeback. I swallow past the sudden dryness in my throat. “We’ll have so much more time together, bud.”
The hint of a smile brightens his expression as we reach the drop-off spot. “I’ll start thinking of all the things I want to do.” He grabs his backpack, unfastens his seat belt, and opens the door. “Bye, Dad.”
“Bye, T-Man. I love you. Have a good day.”
His eyes meet mine for a second. “Love you, too.” He closes the door and bolts through the crowd, disappearing inside the building a moment later.
On my drive home, I set a reminder to reach out to my parents and the teacher in a couple hours. Hopefully it’s nothing to worry about, but I’d rather err on the side of caution.
As I park in the driveway, my phone rings, Fin’s name flashing on the screen. I hit accept. “Morning, sunshine. You’re up early,” I say with exaggerated cheer in my voice.
“Are you always this loud in the morning?”
I cut the engine and exit the car. “Only for you, Finny.”
If eye rolls made a noise, I’d hear it through the line right now.
“You’re ridiculous.” He huffs out a breath. “Just like my neighbor who thought no one would care if he used an electric saw in his open garage at seven in the morning. Ugh.”
Unlocking the front door, I step in the house and toe off my shoes. “Dick move.”
“Yeah. And now, I can’t sleep. Was wondering if you wanted to knock out filming early.”
Not really. The plan is to nap an hour before Fin comes over. But I guess there’s always time after.
“Sure. Head over when you’re ready. I may power nap on the couch until then.”
“I’ll be sure to bang loudly on the door, sunshine .”
I laugh. “Appreciate it.”
When the call disconnects, rather than sit on the couch and close my eyes, I head for the kitchen. Pull ingredients from the fridge and pantry for three more videos. Thankfully, some of the ingredients overlap for the recipes and I can use some footage more than once.
While I wait for Fin, I check my stats for the last few videos. Millions of views display on each post. As I work my way through the comments, liking and responding to as many as possible, Fin bangs on the front door.
“Wakey, wakey, porn star,” he shouts loud enough for it to carry through the trees to my parents’ house.
As I open the door, I roll my eyes. “Really, Fin? My parents will scold you every day for the rest of your life if they hear you.”
Goofy smirk on his face, he strolls past me and into the house. “Lucky for me, they aren’t home.” He kicks off his shoes and heads for the kitchen. “What meat are you molesting for your groupies today?”
Following in his wake, I peel my shirt off and toss it on the dining room table. “Something moist and juicy.”
“Should’ve known.” He chuckles as he surveys the ingredients on the counter. “I’m ready when you are.”
For the next three hours, I do what I love most. Cook and entertain.