8. Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
Tate
I always text her before I show up at the diner to make sure she’s not too busy.
It started as a joke.
On my way for our five-star Michelin diner date.
She sent back a rolling eye emoji. Told me she doesn’t date customers.
I told her good thing I’m not just a customer.
Now it’s a thing.
Same booth. Same coffee. Same look on her face when she pretends she’s not happy I’m there.
Tonight, I don’t text.
Because tonight, I have flowers, and the thought of surprising her brings a warmth to my chest I have never known before.
The flowers are nothing insane. Nothing over-the-top.
Just a small bundle of white daisies wrapped in brown paper from the stand off Main Street. They reminded me of her. Simple. Pretty. More resilient than they look.
I walk into the diner feeling smug about the surprise.
The bell above the door jingles.
It’s quieter than usual. A couple in a booth. Two guys arguing softly over fries.
And at the counter,
There’s a kid.
Sitting two stools down from where I usually sit when I pick the counter over my booth.
Small. Brown hair that looks like it was brushed and then immediately defeated the brush. Big green eyes. Legs swinging because they don’t reach the floor.
There’s a juice box in front of him.
And on his upper arm, a little white device peeping out from under his yellow t-shirt.
I notice it without meaning to.
I slide onto the stool beside him, setting the flowers carefully on the counter.
He eyes them, then looks up at me.
“Those for your girlfriend?” he asks bluntly.
I choke on a laugh. “She’s not yet, but I’m hoping to win her over. Have any tips for me?”
He considers that. Tapping his little finger to his chin.
“My momma says boys who try too hard are suspicious.”
I grin. “Your momma sounds smart.”
“She is.” He picks up his juice box, sipping the last bit out.
I nod toward his arm, where I see a little white square device attached to his arm. “What’s that for? Does it turn you into a superhero or something?”
He straightens a little, shoulder back, sitting a little taller. “It’s my Dexcom. It tells my momma my numbers.”
“Your numbers?”
“I have type one diabetes.” He says it casually, like he’s explaining the weather. “My pancreas doesn’t work right. But I can eat whatever I want, my momma just has to dose me for it with medicine.” He pulls up his pant leg to show me another device sitting on the top of his thigh.
Something in my chest softens.
“That’s rude of your pancreas,” I say.
He nods seriously. “Yeah. It’s kinda lazy.”
I laugh.
“What’s your name?”
“Rowen.”
The name settles somewhere in my head.
“I’m Tate.” I look around for his parents, but no one looks concerned that their child is talking to a complete stranger.
His eyes narrow slightly. “You play hockey?”
“Guilty.”
“My momma watches it all the time.”
Before I can ask any more questions, the kitchen door swings open.
And there she is. Crazy hair pulled up tight into a bun, her eyes looking down at her little black booklet, her apron pulled tight around her waist, showing the soft curves of her body.
She’s mid-sentence to one of the cooks when—
“Momma!” the kid next to me yells out.
The word hits like a puck straight to my chest.
She freezes.
Her eyes lock onto the kid.
Then drift over to me.
Then to the flowers on the counter and back to me again.
And I watch the exact second she realizes what’s happening.
My brain catches up a half-beat later.
Momma.
Green eyes.
The Dexcom.
The way he said, ‘my momma watches hockey.’
My stomach drops.
Celeste walks forward slowly, like she’s stepping onto thin ice, careful not to fall.
“Ro,” she says softly.
Ro.
I look at him.
Look at her.
And the math starts adding up whether I want it to or not. Same green eyes, same hair color.
Holy shit.
He grins at her. “Look, the guy we watch on TV brought flowers for a girl,” Rowen smiles, completely unaware of what is happening around him.
Her eyes close briefly.
Then she looks at me.
And there it is.
Fear.
Not embarrassment.
Fear.
“You didn’t text,” she says quietly.
“I wanted to surprise you.”
“I see that.” Her tone sharp.
Rowen beams between us like he’s just won something.
I swallow.
“He’s yours,” I say, because I need to hear it.
She nods. “Yes.”
The word rearranges something inside my chest.
“How old?” I manage.
“Five.”
Five.
Five years old.
Everything clicks into place with brutal clarity.
The distance. The hesitation. The way she guards herself like she’s protecting something fragile.
She leans over the counter in front of him, brushing his hair back gently. “Did you check your numbers?”
He nods. “I told him about my pancreas.”
Celeste stands again, eyes flicking to me.
“We need to talk.” I say softly, not wanting to show my emotions in front of the kid.
We step into the hallway near the restrooms. The smell is unpleasant, but it seems to be the most private area I can find at this time.
I take a deep breath, leaning against the soft white wall, she looks…
scared, no, maybe nervous. I want to reach for her, wrap her in my arms, but that would only be to benefit me.
I just need a moment to wrap my head around this.
Celeste has a kid… a kid, not a baby, a kid.
I look at Celeste, her eyes are soft and doe-shaped.
When she meets my gaze, she exhales shakily.
“I don’t really know what to say,” I mutter out loud. I’ve never even considered this as an option, but now everything about her makes sense. The walls, the “I don’t date” mantra, the reason she quit playing hockey. If my math is right, she must have had him in late high school.
“I was going to tell you.”
“When?” My tone is soft, I’m not mad or even the slightest bit upset, I’m just… fuck… confused? My brain is rattling like I just took a cross-check straight to the back of the head.
“I don’t know. When I knew you weren’t going anywhere.”
That stings a little.
“You think I would’ve run?”
“You wouldn’t be the first. I can’t afford to find out.” She wrings her fingers together, wrapping and unwrapping them. When her eyes shift down the hall to the sound of her son’s voice.
Everything, truly everything, explains itself. It’s not fear for herself.
It’s for him.
“For what it’s worth,” I say quietly, “I brought you flowers.”
She laughs weakly. “Tate…”
“I’m serious.”
My chest feels tight. Not angry. Just… recalibrating.
“You get that this is a lot, right?” she says. “I don’t casually date. I don’t just… see where things go.”
“I know.”
“I have a five-year-old with type one diabetes. That’s hospital visits and numbers at 2 A.M. and—”
“I’m not scared of that.”
“You should be.”
She’s giving me an out.
Again.
I shake my head. I don’t know the first fucking thing about taking care of a kid or being with someone who has a kid, but I’m willing to figure it out. This feeling in my chest, the tightness, the way it races when I see her, it’s worth it.
“Are you pushing me away because you don’t want me,” I ask quietly, “or because you think I don’t want him?”
Silence.
Her eyes gloss over.
“I can’t let someone walk into his life and walk out,” she whispers.
I think about the way he looked at her.
The way he talked about her like she hung the moon.
“I’m not planning on going anywhere, I… I just need grace, okay. This is new for me, but I’m not running, I just need time to learn, and you have to be willing to let me do that,” I say.
Her breath trembles. But she nods her head, agreeing with the words that I hope she knows I mean.
“My shift ends in an hour,” she says. “We can talk then.”
“I’ll wait, but Cel.” I reach for her hand, lacing our fingers together, pulling her closer into me.
“I know this is also hard and new for you, but you have to trust me. I’m not going to lie to you or just pack up and leave one day.
This only works if we both try.” I wrap my arms tightly around her shoulder, laying my head on top of hers, which pulls at the muscles of my back due to the height difference.
And when I walk back out to the counter, Rowen looks up at me.
“You in trouble?” he asks.
I huff a quiet laugh.
“Probably.”
He nods thoughtfully.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “She forgives people sometimes.”
I glance toward the kitchen where Celeste disappeared.
Yeah.
I hope so.