4. Maizie
Chapter four
Maizie
O kay, I’ll admit it. This dating app thing is actually kind of fun.
It could all be bullshit, but it’s a lot better than what I have going on, which is absolutely nothing.
Dating in a small town is hard, especially when you’ve grown up with most of the guys around here.
Or when you’ve been harboring a crush on one of your friends that you know you can never act on—but I’m not going to think about that.
In Shine, my pickings are slim. There are the guys I went to school with, who I’ve known practically my entire life, or there are the guys who come into Thorn and Thistle.
Those two groups tend to have a significant overlap.
This town isn’t really a place where single people move to.
Most of the men who live in Shine have been here their entire lives, or have moved away and then have come back to raise kids like me.
And they’re either happily married, bitter from divorce, or they just never grew up.
None of that bodes well for a single mom who may or may not want to find a partner.
Honestly, I’ve never given much thought to putting myself out there until Lucy brought it up—a.k.a.
, harassed me mercilessly. I figured I’d meet someone eventually.
I was a young mom—still am—and it always seemed like one of those things I’d have time for later.
But Lucy has made the point over and over: I’ll never meet someone if I don’t put myself out there.
So last week, I finally gave in to one of her harebrained ideas.
And it actually hasn’t blown up in my face.
With the threat of Nolan destroying my world gone, I can finally relax again.
I didn’t sleep for days. Becoming a mom hasn’t been great for my sleep, but those few nights on the couch were miserable.
When Wyatt came over with the exterminator to get rid of the raccoons, he made a comment about me finally being able to get some shut-eye.
Little did he or anyone else know that it wasn’t the raccoons I needed gone, it was the threat of Nolan showing up and blowing my life to pieces.
Now that he’s gone, I can get back to business as usual.
Well, mostly usual. This whole dating thing is out of the ordinary, but I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t the first time in years I’ve felt a little more like the girl I was becoming before I got pregnant and had to move back to Shine.
It’s not that I don't love my life and what I’ve built here. I love my son, my friends, and my job. But for the first time in years, I’m letting myself do something a little out of the ordinary, something for me —not the mom, friend, or kick-ass employee. Just me.
“ Moooom , when is Cece going to get here?” Colby asks, popping into the bathroom as I put the finishing touches on my makeup.
“Soon, monkey. I don’t need to head to work for another thirty minutes.”
Colby has missed spending time with Cece.
When I was worried about Nolan being here, I’d made arrangements for him to spend last week rotating between Lucy and Charlie’s houses.
Being a single mom, I make sure to have everything set up in advance, so I couldn’t very well say never mind and have Cece come over.
Things were back to normal, but I didn’t want to raise suspicions about why I was bringing Colby to them in the first place.
It’s entirely possible that I’m overthinking this entire thing, but I suppose that’s what happens when you’re avoiding telling your friends the truth about why you’re scared to leave your kid home with a babysitter.
“I’m going to finish painting her a picture,” Colby says, then takes off running out of my bathroom.
I smile in the mirror. He’s such a sweet kid. Then it hits me…
“Colby,” I call. “You mean draw, not paint, right?” No answer. “Colby?”
My question is met with silence. It’s that scary kind of silence that screams your kid is getting up to something he knows he shouldn’t be doing and doesn’t want to say anything .
I’m fine with him expressing his creative spirit; hell, I encourage it.
He loves using paints, but I’m always there to supervise and make sure we don’t suddenly have a new mural of handprints on the wall.
Walking into the kitchen, I find my son sitting at the table, papers scattered across the cloth I keep handy so accidents don’t ruin the wood. Well, at least he thought to do that much.
“What did I tell you about painting while I can’t be here to watch?” I ask.
He looks up at me, and I notice the line of blue across his cheek. “I forgot.”
“You forgot what I said, or you forgot you weren’t supposed to get all this out by yourself?”
He sticks his bottom lip out and looks to the side. “Both?”
“Yeah, I’m not buying it, kid.” I shake my head and sit across from him. “You know the rules with the paint. Next time you break them, there won’t be any more painting, understood?”
“Sorry, Mommy. You were busy, and I really wanted to paint a picture for Cece. She loves my paintings.”
“I understand, but you still have to ask.”
He slouches in his seat at the table. “Can I keep painting, or do I have to put it away?”
“Do you promise to ask next time?”
He nods with wide eyes, imploring me not to take his paints away.
“Okay.” I look at what he’s working on. “That looks great, buddy. Tell me about your picture.” That’s a little trick I learned after about the tenth time that I would try to decipher his drawings—ask him to explain so I don’t inevitably get it wrong.
Though Colby is artistic for a five-year-old little boy, he’s more of an abstract artist than a realist. That could also be because he’s five.
“That’s me,” he says, pointing to a smaller figure on the page. “And that’s Cece.” He points to a figure with yellow hair.
“Who’s that?” I ask, pointing to the blob of yellow.
“Pepper,” he says as though it should be obvious. I suppose I can see it if I squint one eye and close the other.
“What are you guys doing?” The only thing he’s painted with the figures is a huge green ground.
“We’re playing at the park, but I still need to paint the swings.” Colby grabs a brush and dips it in black paint.
“Okay, bud. Why don’t you finish your painting, and I’ll make you a snack.”
“Carrots, please,” he requests.
“You know, you’re going to turn orange one of these days,” I tell him as I stand from the table. Most moms would be happy their five-year-old is interested in vegetables at all, but the only thing this kid eats is anything orange.
“Really?” he asks excitedly, kicking his feet back and forth under the table. “That would be so cool.”
I should not have told him that. It’s going to be more of an incentive now.
“How about an apple, too?”
“With peanut butter?” he asks without looking from the black paint he’s now using to line a swing set.
“Duh.” I smile, walk over to the refrigerator, and pull out an apple and a bag of carrots, then set them on the counter that separates the kitchen from the small dining area where Colby is set up.
The entire time I was pregnant with Colby, I ate apples and peanut butter.
It was one of my only cravings, and my grandmother was convinced he would come out of the womb with a spoonful of peanut butter.
The memory of her making that joke sends a sharp pang of grief through my heart. God, I miss her.
My grandma never knew who Colby’s dad was because I refused to tell anyone.
But I know that if she were here, and I had told her how scared I was last week when Nolan showed up at the house, she would’ve done everything in her power to reassure me we were safe.
She would have gathered me in her arms and told me that she knew I had my reasons for not saying anything—just like she did a hundred times before.
And it breaks my heart that Colby doesn’t remember her.
That she won’t see him grow into this adorably sweet and occasionally mischievous little soul who she loved from the instant I told her I was pregnant.
“Mom, why are you staring at me?”
A laugh escapes, and I grab a knife from the butcher block next to me and begin cutting his apple. “I happen to like looking at you.”
He gives me one of his goofy grins and goes back to painting his masterpiece.
I bring his snack over to the table, and he grabs a carrot and bites into it, munching as he concentrates on his painting.
After putting everything away, I take a seat at the table across from my son to supervise while he paints.
He’s engrossed in his project, only stopping to take a bite of either the apple or carrot on his plate and examine his work of art.
My phone dings with a notification from the dating app.
There are a couple messages from the guy who I matched with.
Steven Sheridan, age thirty-five, never been married, and no kids.
He’s good-looking with dark hair, and his bio says he’s six-one.
Not bad. He seems nice enough. I told him I am, in fact, a single mother, and he was completely nonplussed by the idea.
Lucy didn’t put that in my profile, but I don’t feel right lying to anyone about being a mom or omitting that fact while we get to know each other online.
It seems disingenuous, and though I’ve spent the last several years keeping a secret from those closest to me, I’m painfully truthful in every other area of my life.
Almost as though I’m overcompensating for the last five years of a huge omission.
Steven: How do you feel about Thai food?
Me: Love it. There was a little Thai restaurant in Boston that had the best Pad Thai I’ve ever tasted in my life.
Steven: Are there any good Thai restaurants where you live?
Me: Lol. No. It’s been years since I’ve had Thai.
Steven: There’s a great spot about twenty minutes from me. Maybe we can have our first official date there.
Me: Well, I’m pretty sure to go out on a date you’d have to ask first.