Chapter 30
Hendricks
“Daddy?”
“Yes, bud?”
“I think I’m going to have a cinnamon bun today.”
I peer down at Max, whose fingers are splayed on the glass wall that separates tiny hands from the freshly baked goods. When he steps back from the screen, he leaves a smeary little circle where he pressed his nose against it.
“That’s a great idea. How about we get two cinnamon buns? And two hot chocolates.”
His eyes find mine, always so curious. “I can have both?”
I nod. “I think today’s a special occasion, don’t you?”
He turns slowly around the coffee shop, taking in all the red and pink and the hearts falling from the ceiling. Each table is covered in a red or pink tablecloth, with pink croissants, sugar hearts sprinkled over the flapjacks, brownies, and custard tarts.
It’s a lot, and Max’s expression says as much.
“Because it’s Valentine’s?”
“Exactly.” I don’t add that there’s an element of bribery in my offer. “Would you like to find a table before it gets too busy?”
He rushes off almost before I finish my sentence, narrowly avoiding a collision with Matt, one of the baristas. I watch him settle into a seat toward the back of the bakery. It’s a table we sit at a lot because Max likes to stare out the window at everyone walking past.
After putting our order in, I join him and find he’s building a house from the sugar cubes. I stack two together and add them to the top.
“Chimney.” I wink.
Sitting across from him, I’m weirdly nervous about our conversation. It’s a subject I’ve never touched on with Max. Thanks to Miles, he believes girlfriends are gross. He’s not wild about the fact that his cousin is a girl either. So it’s anyone’s guess how this conversation will go.
For five years, it’s just been the two of us.
I’ve reveled in every single moment, every tradition we’ve created.
Even the not-so-great ones have been a rite of passage instead of something to endure, like the time he had chickenpox and I stayed up for three days straight to stop him from scratching in his sleep, having to leave him with Sienna before I was awarded full custody, or any tantrum because he’s inherited Miles’s dramatic side.
He’s my sweet, funny boy, and I am so lucky to have him.
For five years, he’s had all my attention. Everything I’ve done I’ve done for him, and I’ll continue to do so for as long as I can.
But things are going to change.
“Are you excited about the fair?”
He places his latest sugar cubes down and taps a chubby finger to his chin, as he gives it some real consideration.
“Hmm. I’m not excited about the singing. But I am excited about seeing Honey at the kissing booth. As long as no one takes her.” His mouth turns down, just like Miles taught him.
That would be Honey the puppy.
Earlier in the week, Max accompanied me to the local animal rehoming center to run through a last-minute check of the dogs being brought in today.
Thanks to the public service announcement running from the tannoy, he’s been parroting commentary all week about the importance of giving dogs a good home.
He visited all of them, but one in particular caught his eye—Honey, a three-month-old golden retriever/dachshund mix who’d been abandoned.
She was so tiny, clearly the runt, and Max carried her under his arm and almost out into the car for the journey home before I noticed.
It’s not the first time Max has tried to sneak a small creature home with him, and I doubt it’ll be the last. Normally, it’s a farmyard animal, like the pygmy goats we rescued at Christmas, and were definitely not allowed in the house.
Each time it happens, it’s met with a discussion about where their real beds are.
Honey doesn’t come with that restriction. Max already knows she’s allowed in the house with the other dogs, an argument he’s put forth many times.
Normally, it doesn’t take long for him to get distracted with a new subject, but it’s been a week, and he’s still talking about her. So yesterday I called the center and said I’d take her in return for a sizeable donation.
By the end of the day, we’ll be a four-dog household.
Reaching out, I ruffle his hair. “No one will have taken her,” I reassure him.
He smiles, his eyes open wide, and I assume it’s because he’s happy with my answer, but it’s Claudia arriving with hot chocolate and the cinnamon buns. Pink whipped cream tops Max’s hot chocolate, and the buns have been sprinkled with glitter and pink hearts.
He gets the exact same expression he had in the queue earlier.
“Thanks, Claudia.” I smile up at her.
“You’re welcome, and Happy Valentine’s Day, Maxy.”
His brows drop low as he looks suspiciously at his hot chocolate. “It’s very pink.”
“Yeah, that’s love for you,” she replies, droll as ever. “Tastes the same, though.”
He stares at me over the top of the whirl of cream, silently demanding that I offer an opinion too.
“Happy Valentine’s,” I call after her as she walks away while Max picks the pink hearts off his cinnamon bun. “I’m sure they taste okay.”
He shrugs. “I just want to taste cinnamon.”
“Fair enough, bud . . . but as it’s Valentine’s Day, I wanted to talk to you about something.”
“Okay.”
Out of the window, the queues are already forming for Agatha’s. Teenagers, couples, and adults who should know better are all waiting patiently for her store to open and to get their hands on a new love potion or spell to take home.
“Do you remember when you asked me about having a valentine?”
He shakes off a heart stuck to his finger and takes an enormous bite of the bun. After wiping the sugar from around his lips, he mumbles, “It’s a secret?”
I nod. “Right. And now you’ve been at school learning about Valentine’s Day.”
“I made my card for you.”
He’s so proud of himself, I can’t help but grin back, forgetting that I received it at a little after five o’clock this morning when Max burst into my room. “I know you did, bud. I love it. Thank you.”
“That makes you my valentine.” He smiles, though he’s more focused on licking the cinnamon sugar off his fingers. “I wanted to put more glitter, but Felicity used it all.” His eyes roll.
“I think it’s perfect. And what did your friends make?”
He shrugs. “I dunno.”
Removing the blob of pink cream from both our cups, I sip at my hot chocolate. “If I wanted to give a valentine to someone, what would you think about that?”
“You mean someone you love?”
“Yes—”
“Like Granny?”
I suppress a smile. “Not quite like Granny. But a lady. A woman.”
He’s thinking about his answer when he points out the window. “Look. There’s Miss MacIntosh.”
Following the line of his finger, I see what he sees. Sure enough, Story is crossing the street. After years of having no contact, seeing her walk toward me again with her beaming smile is something I will never tire of. It’s the smile I pictured on my darkest of days.
“She’s waving at us.” He delights, waving back. “D’you think she’s coming in here?”
“It looks that way.”
When Max turns away and faces me, his expression is curious. “Daddy, I think she’s by herself.”
I spin around to check. “I believe you’re correct again, Maxy.”
“Maybe she’d like to join us?” Max’s shoulders lift so high they brush his ears.
“Would that be okay with you if she did?”
Max nods. “Yes.”
“Then why don’t you go ask her?”
He jumps up, bold and determined, and my heart swells three sizes.
Story coming to meet us was planned, but I had nothing to do with my son’s reaction to seeing her.
I can’t lie and say it doesn’t make me inordinately happy.
It gives me a shred of hope that the process of changing his relationship with her from teacher to personal will be much easier.
I’ve already ordered all the books from about single dads and dating. Too many, probably, but I refuse to believe that you can be overprepared.
“Good morning,” greets Story, arriving at the table she’s being dragged to.
“Good morning.” I grin, standing to pull her chair out, fighting the urge to kiss her like I want to. When she flicks her hair behind her ear, the faint floral scent it leaves behind makes my heart judder. “Thank you for joining us. You look very pretty.”
“Why, thank you.” She tips her head and smiles at me, and her cheeks turn as pink as the hair band she’s wearing. “Max invited me to join you both, though he’s already warned me everything’s covered in pink.”
“Even the hot chocolate,” he grumbles. “Chocolate is supposed to be brown.”
Story peers around. “You’re right, Max. It’s very pink. Very pink. But I don’t mind because it’s my second favorite color.”
Max’s eyes meet hers over the hot chocolate he’s still not touched. “What’s your first favorite color?”
“It’s light purple.”
His reply is immediate. “Did you know light purple is called lilac?”
My hand drops to my side. Under the table, I reach for Story’s hand and squeeze it. She squeezes it back, gentle and affirming.
Fuck, I love her. I always have, and sitting here listening to her have a conversation with my son is something I never realized I needed.
“Actually, I did know.”
“That’s my favorite color too. And it’s my daddy’s.”
Story turns to me, eyes sparkling bright. Miles isn’t the only one I can have silent communication with because I hear everything she says with that look. We’re transported back to the day we first met two decades ago.
“What other things are your favorites?”
His lips roll and purse as he thinks about it. “I love flapjacks, and polo, and snails, and dogs . . .” His eyes flick to me, and he continues in the same breath. “Daddy, can we go see Honey?”
“I don’t think she’s here yet, bud. They’re not coming until later.”
Story turns to me. “Who’s Honey?”
“Can we go check? Pleeeeeaase?” Max drags out the vowels, an expert in negotiation. “Miss MacIntosh can come too.”
I turn to Story, lips quirking. “Shall we go and see if the dogs have arrived at the kissing booth? Max would like to show you a puppy he met. Her name is Honey.”
“I’d love to.” She chuckles.