Page 56 of Summer Romance

“Come see my room,” Cliffy says, and leads him by the hand upstairs.

I’m a little relieved when he’s gone. I need a second to regroup. Brenda’s staring up at me. Greer has taken a seat at the counter and is looking at me too. “You look nice, Mom,” she says.

“Thank you,” I say, and know that I need to start acting like a normal person. I open the bottle of wine and take out two glasses. I pour myself a half glass. “Let’s go check on the grill.”

When Ethan and Cliffy join us outside, Cliffy is beaming. “This kid’s got a lot of talent,” Ethan says. “Did you see what he made today?”

Cliffy holds out a folded piece of paper with a bunch of separate drawings on it. “I drew a book,” he says.

I take it from him and sit at the table to look at the sequential drawings. Two people meet, they play catch, they fight, they walk away, and then they sit at a table to draw. “I like this story,” I say, and pull him onto my lap. Cliffy has an understanding of how things are supposed to go. And I know he feels the transactional nature of the love Pete offers him. Cliffy’s not going to play ball, not on any level. And he’s going to be just fine.

Cliffy gives me a squeeze and gets up to organize his trucks. I look up and Ethan is watching me.

“I didn’t get you any wine,” I say, and walk back into the house.

Dinner is funand easy.See?my mother whispers from the geraniums. Iris talks nonstop and asks Ethan questions about the X Games. Greer suggests Iris not talk so much. Cliffy performs a song about farts that he learned at camp, and the dogs fall asleep under the table.

After dinner, the girls go to their rooms, and I take Cliffy up to bed. “I’ll just be a minute,” I say as we go upstairs. I read him the last chapter of Cam Jansen and go back down to find Ethan sitting on the sofa outside. I sit down next to him, and he hands me a glass of wine.

“So,” he says.

“So,” I say. And we are smiling at each other the smallest bit.

He takes my hand, and I love the feel of it. I don’t know what’s coming next, but whatever it is, I hope I can keep holding his hand. “How did it go with your client?” I ask.

“Fine,” he says. “Well, I think really good. Find out next week.”

“Ah,” I say. Now I have my other hand over his and I’m exploring a scar along his thumb.

“I also need to figure out what happened with the kids’ permit last weekend. And I have a new client with an asbestos complaint.” He’s quiet for a second and we listen to the crickets along the creek. “Anyway, that’s all boring. I had a lot of stuff I wanted to say.”

I look up at him but don’t say anything. I’m not really sure what I want him to say.

“What’s happened to you?” he asks. My hand flies up to my hair for some reason. “You seem lighter.”

I smile. “I don’t know. I had some space. I was ready. I cleaned up.”

“Oh my God, I’m freaking Prince Charming,” he says.

“Are not.” I laugh.

“No, I totally am. I kissed you and you’re not a frog anymore.”

“First of all, your knowledge of fairy tales is sad. And it wasn’t just that.” I look down to where I’m still holding his hand. “It’s all of it.” I don’t dare look back up, but he squeezes my hand.

“I guess what I wanted to say is that I really like you.” I look up at him to see if he’s being casual or intense. “I am very afraid that you’re going to break my heart. And I think it’s worth it.” Intense.

“I don’t want to break your heart,” I say.

“Okay, then don’t.” And he leans in and kisses me.

32

I open my eyes Saturday morning to a text: I’ll pick you and Ferris up at 10:05. I want my kitchen looking like yours

I don’t reply because I’m hearing his voice say those words. I want him to type something else so I can hear it again, but it’s my turn. Me: See you then

I head downstairs to make coffee with the sound of his voice still in my head. I pour myself a cup, take Ferris out back, and count the number of things I need to do before I get to see him. Feed and pack the kids; Phyllis. But also pluck my eyebrows and blow-dry my hair. I think it’s too late to be a person who wears perfume. I’m in the shower, shaving with my glasses on, when Iris comes in and tells me she can’t find her soccer jersey, which opens the door to the Lost Item Rabbit Hole™. We spend the next two and a half hours pawing through the basement laundry, emptying every gym bag, and calling each of her teammates because she thinks she may have taken it off on the field last weekend. We drive to the rec center and go through their lost andfound and then drive home and find that it’s in the backseat of my car. This is not an entirely unusual occurrence, but today that lost time feels like a catastrophe. I make the eggs and bring Phyllis a to-go serving with minutes to spare before Pete shows up.

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