OLIVIA
The timer on the oven still has three minutes left and I'm already pulling the second batch of blueberry muffins off the cooling rack to make room.
The kitchen smells heavenly, even with all the windows cracked to let the breeze through.
Sunday mornings are my favorite. There's nowhere to be and nothing to do except bake and let Ethan run himself ragged in the backyard.
I wipe my hands on the dish towel and lean toward the open window over the sink. "Ethan! Come wash your hands, muffins are almost done."
But I get no answer from him, and he's awfully quiet.
I can see the corner of the yard from here where his soccer ball sits in the grass, but he's not near it.
He's probably around the side of the house getting dirty.
He'll need a full bath, not just a hand wash, and I hope to God he's not digging up my oleander again.
"Ethan! Hands, please," I call, backing into the kitchen. I can't go out to find him right now with muffins in the oven. I don't want a fire. But the backyard is fenced in and he's been taught to stay put inside the fence. I'm sure he's just getting into trouble somehow.
I pull the last batch from the oven and set the tray on the stovetop, then peel back the curtain to get a wider view of the yard.
He's not on the swing set and he's not on the patio.
I'm about to walk out there and track him down when the front door opens and Ethan comes barreling down the hallway with Caleb right behind him.
"Mom, I invited Caleb for muffins!" Ethan announces.
He's beaming and out of breath and his knees are grass-stained.
And while the shock of seeing the handsome Marine in my kitchen doorway makes my heart flutter a little, I also feel a bit tense that Ethan is now leaving my property to go to Caleb's house and invite him over.
"He was very persuasive," Caleb says flatly.
I wonder if this man ever smiles. That first day I met him is about the only time I've ever seen that face crack a smile, and when he did, it was dazzling.
I've been trying ever since to replicate it, but there must be some deep psychology going on for him to always seem so serious.
"He gets that from me." I smile at Caleb and wave him in. "Come sit down. I just pulled them out of the oven and there's plenty." Rather than being upset and chastising my son for being neighborly, I decide to go with the flow.
Caleb doesn't move right away. He looks at the kitchen table, then at Ethan who's already climbing into his chair, but he looks like he'd rather not be here.
As if being kind to an eight-year-old is obligatory, and out of respect he came along.
Still, he walks in and sits down obediently, looking more nervous than at home.
"Coffee?" I ask, already pouring him a cup.
If I wait for him to answer, I'll be waiting a while.
I'm not sure why he finds receiving charity from others difficult.
Or maybe he just really doesn't like us.
I don't want to be an intrusion in his life, but more and more I'm thinking maybe I am.
He's always so stern and not receptive to my happiness.
"Sure."
I set the mug in front of him and then plate up the muffins, putting three on Ethan's plate and two on Caleb's.
I grab the butter dish and a knife and bring those over too, then sit down across from both of them with my own coffee.
My first bite of muffin is delicious, though it crumbles and makes a bit of a mess on my new table.
Ethan already has one of his scarfed down before Caleb has peeled the paper off his.
"These are blueberry with a brown sugar crumble on top," I tell Caleb. "They're Ethan's favorite. I make them almost every Sunday."
Caleb picks one up and looks at it like he's inspecting it for structural integrity.
Then he takes a bite and chews slowly. I watch his face for any sign of a reaction, but it's the same stolid stoicism I've grown used to. And suddenly, I’ve gone from awkwardness that my son dragged him in here to anxiety that he hates my cooking.
There isn't a trace of any emotion on his face.
"Well?" I ask.
"It's good," he says, dabbing the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. I feel like an idiot for not at least giving the man a paper towel, but he seems to adjust easily. I bet in the service they didn't have fancy napkins and cutlery. He's probably used to eating with his hands on the go.
Ethan laughs through a mouthful of muffin. "Mom, he's not a foodie," he says with a grin, and I chuckle at that, wondering where he even heard that word.
"No, but he could at least pretend to have taste buds." I lift both eyebrows as I reach over and wipe some crumbs off Ethan's cheek.
Caleb takes another bite, and I swear the corner of his mouth twitches into a smile, but he kills it before it fully blossoms. He wraps both hands around the coffee mug and sits there with his shoulders slightly hunched, looking oversized in my small kitchen.
The kitchen falls into awkward silence as I take a bite and chew meticulously.
I'm not one to chatter on if I feel like my talking isn't welcome, and Caleb seems to be a man of few words this morning.
Those two mixed together tends to make things feel uncomfortable until Ethan decides he has something to say.
"Caleb, do you like soccer?" Ethan asks, wiping more crumbs off his chin with the back of his hand. I eye the way he gulps from his cup and cringe that he isn’t using his manners, but it doesn't seem to bother Caleb.
"I played a little when I was younger."
"Can you teach me how to do a header? Mom's afraid I'll get a concussion.
" Ethan is so honest and it makes me embarrassed.
He makes me sound like a helicopter parent, but there's a reason those drills were banned in the sport at this age.
A kid takes a header in a soccer match at his age and they give him a red card now.
"Your mother is probably right about that." I notice Caleb's eyes meet mine and a barely distinguishable nod, and I can't help it.
"See?" I point my muffin at Caleb. "Even the grumpy neighbor agrees with me."
"Grumpy?" Caleb asks, and I instantly feel bad. I didn't realize it was an insult to him, and Ethan doesn’t seem to pick up on what just happened. So I get up to grab the juice from the counter and pour Ethan another glass without answering Caleb.
My heart sinks. I don’t need this man to like me.
Heavens, I just wanted to be friendly the way my son was, but now I feel like I've stuck my foot in my mouth.
From the beginning, I knew this was a bad idea.
He's gorgeous and I'm stuck in a warzone between being a single mom and battling to keep Derek's paws off my impressionable child. I don’t have time to worry about whether the neighbor likes me.
When we first met, I knew better than to even let myself indulge in checking him out.
Now I'm reduced to being Betty Crocker and Martha Stewart, and on top of that, I find it impossible to avoid situations where I end up needing something from him.
First the bike, then the fence, now he's here for muffins over a table he built because I can't do everything on my own.
And if I even asked Derek to help, he'd have a nasty remark for me.
Ethan reaches for the glass, but in the process, he accidentally knocks it over and the juice races across the table toward Caleb's lap.
"Oh, no." Ethan's face drops and he freezes with both hands in the air. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
"Hey, it's okay, buddy," I say, grabbing the dish towel off the counter. "It's just juice. No big deal at all. Accidents happen."
But Caleb's already on his feet, dodging the flow.
He picks up his plate and mug and moves them to the counter, then grabs the paper towels from the holder by the stove and starts sopping up the juice on the table before it reaches the edge.
He works quickly, mopping up the puddle then wiping down the surface and doesn't say a word about the juice soaking the front of his jeans.
"You don't have to do that," I tell him, reaching for the paper towels. I feel so bad. It's like shame wraps around me like a blanket and makes me want to hide.
"It's already done." He tosses the wet towels in the trash and sits back down like nothing happened. Then he looks at Ethan, who still has that stricken expression on his face. "You're fine, kid. I've had worse things spilled on me."
Ethan relaxes, and I pour him a new glass, setting it farther from his elbows this time. "Use both hands, please."
"Yes, ma'am," he mutters, shoving more muffin in his face.
It's one thing I am grateful for, that Ethan never lets shame own him the way some adults do.
I've been blessed that my inner healing came early in life, right when Derek cheated on me and I found out.
It forced me to learn compassion before Ethan is full grown so I can be a better mother for him.
I sit back down and catch Caleb watching me for a second before he looks away.
The way he handled that situation with such calm strength is such a turn-on.
Derek would've snapped and made a comment about being more careful.
My mother would've turned it into a lecture.
But there's something about the calm spirit this man has that is so attractive.
We finish the muffins, and Ethan asks if he can go back outside.
I tell him to put his plate in the sink first, and he rushes out with the screen banging shut behind him.
The kitchen goes quiet and I realize it's just me and Caleb sitting at the table.
Unfortunately, after the hullabaloo, I'm feeling less like a bubbly extrovert and more like a woman stewing over how attracted she is to a man she really shouldn’t bother.
I tilt my head toward the front porch. "Come sit outside with me. It's too nice to be stuck in the kitchen."
Caleb follows along, carrying his mug of coffee, and we settle into the chairs on the front porch.
The street's quiet and the sun is warm. I hear Ethan kicking his soccer ball against the fence in the backyard.
I pull my knees up to sit cross-legged and wrap both hands around my mug.
I figure the only way to make this awkward silence between us go away is to get to know each other.
"Can I ask you something?" I say after a minute.
"Go ahead."
"Do you ever get tired of being the way you are?"
He looks at me sideways. "What way is that?"
"You know what I mean. All buttoned up and serious all the time. Don't you ever just want to let your guard down and be silly or relaxed or, I don't know, happy about something?" Maybe it's the wrong question to ask, but I'm sure someone somewhere has asked him this before.
He's quiet for a second, staring out at the street. "Well, I'm not unhappy." When his eyes meet mine, there's a curiosity there, like he's trying to figure me out.
"That's not the same thing as being happy.
" I take a sip of my coffee, but I'm not ready to let it go.
"I ask because I'm the opposite. I try to always stay positive and make sure everyone else feels comfortable and okay.
And sometimes it's exhausting." I pick at the rim of the coffee mug where it's been chipped at some point and feel his eyes on me.
"People assume because I smile a lot, everything's fine.
Like being cheerful means I don't have bad days or that nothing gets to me.
But it gets to me all the time. I just don't have the luxury of showing it because I have a kid who needs me to be steady and an ex who is looking for any crack he can find. "
I didn't mean to say that much. I look down at my mug and feel heat creeping up my neck, embarrassed that I just dumped all of that on a man who came over for a muffin.
"Sorry," I say, forcing a laugh. "That was a lot. You came here for baked goods and I'm giving you a therapy session."
But when I look up, Caleb isn't smiling and he’s looking right at me, watching me with an expression I haven't seen on him before.
I think he's understanding me, and maybe he can relate to how I feel.
His eyes hold mine for a beat, and the look is so soft, I feel my heart flutter again.
If we were closer together, I might think it was a spark of chemistry, that Mr. Ward wanted to kiss me.
Then he blinks and it's gone, replaced by the usual hard set of his jaw. He takes a sip of his coffee and looks back at the street.
"You don't have to apologize for that," he mumbles quietly. The switch from terse to soft is at least something. He's trying to connect on a human level. I just think maybe that part of him might've been broken beyond repair. What do they call that? FUBAR?
After a while, Caleb stands and sets his mug on the railing. "Thanks for the muffins. And the coffee."
"You're welcome," I say softly. "Thank you for listening to me. I'm sorry if it was too much."
"I told you not to apologize and I meant it." He nods his head, as if he's tipping his hat like an old-school gentleman, and then he starts down the porch steps.
I watch him go, and this time, I don't pretend I'm not watching.
Caleb still walks like a soldier with an even gait and squared shoulders.
I wonder if he'll ever get rid of that or if it's permanent.
And I wonder if he'll ever be able to let go of that hard edge he has.
It's sad how our servicemen go overseas and come back with hopes of having a life, only to find the training they've had has crippled them for a normal life.
I should be more careful. I know that. Derek's watching everything. I can't afford to let my guard down with anyone right now.
But I'm so tired of being careful, and Caleb felt safe sitting there.
What am I supposed to do? Live under Derek's thumb the rest of my life?