Page 31 of Reaching Ryan

Chapter Fourteen

Grace

A novelty.

That’s what Patrick called himself.

A novelty.

As soon as the new wears off, Molly will be back to her stubborn, bull-headed self.

I’ve got to believe it’ll be the same with Ryan. That the reason she’s being so well-behaved and reasonable with him is because he’s new to her. Like a shiny toy she can’t wait to play with.

As soon as she’s pressed his buttons a few thousand times and he’s barked at her one too many times, the honeymoon will be over and we can all move on from this whole mess. She won’t want to have anything to do with him anymore.

Yeah? What about you? What’s it going to take for you to walk away? Leave him alone—because let’s be honest, you aren’t here because your daughter wanted to give Ryan a bag of stale cotton candy. You’re here because it’s been four days since you’ve seen him and even though he made it clear he’s not interested, you’ll take any opportunity you can find to see him again and presumably make an asshole of yourself.

The realization sets my face on fire.

The waitress appears again, this time with a stack of placemats and plastic cup full of crayons. “I thought maybe your little girl would like to color while she waits for her food.” She says it to Ryan. Clearly smitten, she blushes. “You know, keep her occupied.”

A slight frown marring his handsome face. He looks like he’s on the verge of correcting her when he clears his throat. “Thanks,” he mumbles at her, tossing me a quick look before taking the paper and crayons from her and passing them to Molly while she watches.

“Excuse me,” I say, angling myself into the waitress’s light of sight. “Where’s the ladies room?”

“Oh.” She finally looks down at me like she’s just realized I’ve been sitting here the whole time. “By the lunch counter.” She gives me a vague smile before refocusing on Ryan. “I’ll go check on your order.”

As soon as she’s gone, I reach across the booth for Molly’s hand. “Come on, Moll,” I say. “Mom’s gotta use the bathroom.” I really don’t. What I need is a few Ryan-free minutes to convince myself that he can’t see what a desperate mess I am.

Before Molly can offer up a protest, Ryan butts in again. “She can stay with me.”

“No.” My refusal comes, fast and firm. “I barely know you. You think I’m just going to leave—”

“You’re going to the bathroom, Grace.” He gives me that flat one-note smile of his. “And it’s not like I’m built for fast getaways these days,” he says, facing my insinuations head on. “I think we can handle five minutes on our own.” When I don’t move or relent, he pulls out the big guns. “When was the last time you went to the bathroom by yourself?”

“It’s been a long time,” Molly chimes in, looking up from the placemat she’s coloring on to look at Ryan. “Do you know how to play Tic Tac Toe?”

“I don’t know,” he says, dismissing me completely. “Let’s find out.”

Because I don’t know what else to do and I suddenly feel like I’m intruding somehow, I stand and make my first Molly-free trip to a public restroom in four-years.

And it’s glorious.

How a five-minute solo trip to the bathroom can feel like a full-fledged spa day is something only a mother can understand.

On my way back to the table, our waitress stops me. “Your daughter is adorable,” she says, from where she’s sitting behind the counter, rolling silverware. Her gaze shifts past me and her smile turns a little wistful. “Almost as cute as her dad.”

Turning, I aim my gaze in the same direction to find Ryan and Molly at the table, where I left them. Both are hunched over the table, crayons in hand, studying the placemat between them like the fate of the free world rests on their next move.

“He’s a good dad.”

I turn away from Molly and Ryan to find the waitress looking at me again. “Some aren’t.” She says it like she knows from personal experience. “You’re lucky.”

He’s not her dad. I don’t know who her dad is. Couldn’t pick him out of a line-up if my life depended on it.

I almost say it.

I almost tell this total stranger the truth. The one thing I’ve never admitted to anyone else.

My refusal to name Molly’s father isn’t about making myself a martyr or protecting someone who doesn’t deserve protection.

I’ve never pointed my finger because I don’t know who to point it at and admitting that in a town like Bennett would make me a whore, regardless of the circumstances.

“Thanks.” The word comes out sounding rusty. Tasting bitter.

Before she can say anything else, I turn away from her and head back to the table.

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