Page 85 of Canadian Boyfriend

He made a silly face at the baby and to me said, “I’ll shower, then we’ll go shopping for hiking boots?”

I shoved the guilt away. “Sure.”

“There’s scrambled eggs and bacon on the stove and bagels on the counter by the toaster,” Diane said. “Coffeepot is full. Help yourself to anything.”

I poured a coffee—I hadn’t gotten over my long-standinghabit of skipping breakfast, but it turned out that intuitive eating said you didn’t have to eat breakfast if you didn’t want to. Diane introduced me to the kids. The toddler was singing “Let It Go” in between shoving Cheerios in her mouth. “Never a dull moment around here, eh?” Look at me, adding that Canadianehonto the end of my sentence. When in Manitoba, I guess.

“There’ll be three more kids here in a bit, so this is as calm as things will be all day.” She made a silly face at the baby. “I thrive on it, though.” If this was how Mike Martin had grown up, I could see why he wanted, to use his word, a brood. “You’re going shopping?” Diane asked.

“Yes. I’m not properly outfitted for this trip—I’m not sure if Mike told you, but my joining him and Olivia on this trip was a last-minute thing.”

“Oh yes, he’s told me all about you.”

Hmm.

She put down the spoon and grabbed my hand that wasn’t holding the coffee cup. “I don’t know what he and Olivia would have done without you this past year. Thank you.” I blinked, hit with a wave of unexpected emotion. Both the sentiment and the ease with which she expressed it startled me. “I’d been wondering if I’d made a mistake leaving them and had been thinking of closing down the day care again and going back, but you saved the day, Aurora.”

“I just did what anyone would do.”

“No, you did whatyouwould do.”

Mike Martin and I went to a shoe store in a mall, which was a funny place to be with him—it made the guilt come back. The window had long since closed on telling him about our long-ago encounter, though, so I told myself to stop worryingabout it. So I made up a boyfriend when I was a kid. Mike Martin was a completely different person from that fictional boy—he was better.

Even more surreal was when he said an old friend was going to join us for lunch and I found myself being introduced to a dark-haired man named John in the parking lot of the mythical Tim Hortons. John looked an awful lot like my memory of Erik from the mall, except aged a couple of decades.

“This is your dad’s place?” I asked.

“No, this is a different one.”

“Mike doesn’t like to go to his dad’s location because people fuss over him,” John said.

“Ah. That tracks. I’ve never met a famous person so allergic to fame before.”

“Right?”

Mike Martin snorted. “I’m not famous, you guys.”

“To be fair, it’s probably extra bad around here, because everyone recognizes him,” John said. “Local son made good, you know?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Mike Martin waved dismissively at us.

“Let me ask you a question, John. Is Mike a hoser? He keeps saying he is, but I’m not buying it.”

“Oh yeah, he is. Total hoser.”

“See?” Mike Martin smirked at me. “Let’s go in.”

For lunch I ordered a bowl of chili and a coffee—or tried to. “I’ll have a small coffee,” I said.

“Small regular?”

“No, just a small.”

“With?”

“I’m sorry?”

Mike Martin and John had been chatting behind me, butMike Martin clued into my confusion, leaned over, and said, “Double milk.”

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