Page 42 of The Slapshot and the Single Mom
After hugging me back, he pushes away and rolls his eyes. “Mo-oom,” he moans. “You always say that.”
Hands on my hips, I shake my head. “I can’t help it. You were just a little baby yesterday!”
Giggling, he shakes his head. “No, I wasn’t! I was a little baby like nine years ago!”
“Ten, really, since you’re ten and a half now. Still, it doesn’tfeellike it was that long ago. It feels like last week!” Grabbing my keys and my purse, I look around. “Do you have everything? Anything you forgot and need to grab before we leave?”
“Nope!” he chirps. “Got it all right here.” He hefts the grocery bag and pats his backpack.
I arch a doubtful eyebrow. “You have clean underwear? And a couple changes of clothes? Should you bring your swimsuit?” Kylehadclothes that fit Liam when we first separated, but that was years ago now, and Liam’s grown a ton in that time. I’m not convinced his dad would’ve bothered to buy new things.
“Yes, Mom.” He gives me that full-body annoyed reaction only tweens can pull off. “Itoldyou I have everything.”
“Okay.” I pull him in for another hug and give him a kiss on the top of his head. “I just want to make sure. I’m the mom. It’s my job.”
“I know,” he grumbles, but there’s a good-natured edge to it.
I hold out my hand for the tote bag, but he shakes his head and puts it on his shoulder—where it promptly slips down to his elbow. Grinning, I open the door for him. He wants to be independent, and that’s a good thing, I remind myself. When we first separated, he wanted me to doeverythingfor him, even things he could easily do himself—tie his shoes, brush his teeth and hair, carry all his stuff—and I’m glad we’re well past that stage of skill regression from emotional turmoil. Even with his dad being a flaky asshole, Liam’s pretty chipper these days, though the inevitable disappointments when his dad bails or only keeps him half the promised amount of time lead to much more moody behavior afterward.
That’s the other thing I’m dreading from this visit. I have no idea how long it’ll last, and I have no idea what state he’ll be in or for how long afterward.
God, I hope Kyle can be a normal person for forty-eight hours and do what he promised.
I load us both into the car and drive Liam to his dad’s, texting Kyle to let him know we’re here, then help Liam get his things out and watch him run to his waiting father, all smiles, his dad catching him in a big hug like he’s genuinely glad to see him. And maybe he is. For now. It’s just … how long will that last this time?
Kyle raises a hand to me in a wave before taking Liam’s tote bag, and I grit my teeth, unsure if I should be annoyed that Kyle’s taking the bag over Liam’s protests (if he made any) or that Liam lets hisdadhelp him but not me.
“You should be grateful it’s not all on you,” I mutter to myself as I climb back in my car. “Heshouldhelp his son. He should do alotof things for his son that he doesn’t. You shouldn’t be pissed about him doing anything when it’s all less than the bare minimum.”
Taking a deep breath, I try to clear my irritation and focus on the positive—Liam gets to see his dad, which makes Liam happy, and I get to go spend the evening with Jack, which makes me happy.
When I let Jack know that Liam was spending the weekend with his dad, he responded with, “That means I get you for the whole weekend too. Awesome.”
I wonder what else he might have planned?
Jack answers the door with a big smile on his face, looking me up and down in the new wrap dress I ordered last week thatcame the other day. The heat in his eyes makes me think this was a good choice. The fabric is soft and silky, clingy in just the right ways, and skimming over the parts that I prefer not to have accentuated.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he says in a low voice, stepping forward and kissing me on the cheek. It doesn’t make me blush this time like it did at lunch the other day. He caught me off guard that time. We’ve never greeted each other with any outward shows of affection before. Even when we’d usually end our evenings together with a hug, he never offered one as a greeting. So I wasn’t expecting anything like that, even after our kiss last Friday. It was one kiss, after all. That doesn’t mean we’ll do it a thousand times (even if I really like the sound of kissing him that often).
This time, I’m ready for it, though, returning his hug and offering my cheek. And while yes, he kissed me goodbye after lunch, I’m not sure that means we’re at the kissing hello stage.
He wraps me in his arms, his muscles firm beneath the smooth fabric of his blue button-down shirt. He looks delicious in dress pants, the blue shirt tucked in, sleeves cuffed at the elbows, the top button undone, and his hair loose, giving the dressy but not overdressed vibe that he pulls of so effortlessly.
“You look nice,” I say as he releases me.
He gives me a big smile. “Thank you. So do you.” I follow him inside his condo, leaving the front door open because I don’t think we’ll be staying long. “You ready?” he asks, picking up his keys and wallet from the coffee table in the living room.
But I’m frozen in place for a beat. Without answering, I move into the hallway that I assume leads to the bedroom andbathroom. Stopping, I stare at the “artwork” hanging on the wall.
I’m torn between melting at how sweet he is and laughing my ass off. I settle for turning to him and pointing at the paintings on the wall—the paintings we did that first night we went out spontaneously. “You hung them up?”
He shrugs, hands in his pockets, not looking at all bashful. “Of course I did. We worked hard on those. They deserve to hang in a place of honor.”
Laughing, I shake my head. “I’m not so sure aboutthat.”
He grins, shrugging again. “I am.” He holds out his hand to me. “Should we go?”
“And see some real art?” I quip, taking his hand. “I’m really looking forward to this.”
