weeks out from Christmas. Each weekend, the market just gets busier and busier. And it’s not supposed to beblisteringlycold tonight, so it’s probably going to be busy.
While I wash the dishes and throw in a load of laundry, stomach rumbling from the lack of breakfast, I consider the possibility of bringing Guswithme. It’s not like there’s a lot of space in the booth, but he could sit under a table. Sienna and I could move around him. And if I bundled him up?—
My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a gentle but firm knock at the door, and my heart swoops into my stomach. Russell is coming with breakfast before the meeting with the lawyer, and somehow I’d completely forgotten.
“Shit,” I whisper, and when I hear Gus’s giggle in the living room, I know that I’m ruining him with my swearing. Turning off the water, drying my hands, and quickly trying to push my hair back from my face, I call, “Coming!”
Russell stands on the other side of the door, looking like a model. He could easily play the dad in one of those commercials where the family comes outside to find a brand-new luxury car, topped with a huge red bow.
In a pair of snug jeans, a red and black plaid button-up, and a puffer jacket, he looks somehow both slightly rugged and cozy at once. I resist the urge to grab him and pull him in for a hug.
Of course, while he’s standing here, looking like this, I’m in a pair of old sweatpants and a large, weathered t-shirt from my high school volleyball days.
When he steps into the apartment, the smell of his cologne wafts past, and the cool air from outside seems to cling to him, dropping off his shoulders like mist from a mountain. In his left hand is a drink carrier, and in his right is a paper sack, rolled up and surely containing my ham and Swiss croissant.
For a moment, I pause, realizing just how quickly and easily Russell has situated himself as an essential part of my day.
“Russell!” Gus says, standing up on the couch and throwing his body over the back. His hair sticks up in every direction, and I wince, wishing I would have brushed his hair and got him ready for the day before Russell got here. I’m not exactly thrilled with the image this paints for the doctor—local single mom, can’t get her shit together to save her life.
“No standing on the couch—” I say on impulse, but Russell’s already deposited breakfast on the counter and turns, grabbing Gus around the middle and lifting him up. Russell says something low under his breath that sounds likewhat did your mom say about standing on the couch?as Gus laughs and squirms in his grip.
For a moment, the sight of them together—of Gus so comfortable with a man—makes my throat thick. Not for the first time, I think of the man at that gala, Gus’s father, wonder what he would say if I could find him and tell him about his son.
Ettie has assured me—based mostly on her own experience—that most men are deadbeats. That Gus and I are better off not knowing that kind of rejection. Dawson’s own father ran off the second he found out Ettie was pregnant.
But seeing Russell with my son makes me ache for something—for a partner. Another person for Gus to look up to. Our little two-person family has never felt like it wasn’t enough, but the relief I’ve felt with Russell being around isn’t something I can ignore, either.
I can’t shake the idea that I might be a better mom to Gus if I wasn’t so tired, so stressed all the time.
Setting Gus at the counter and laying out his breakfast, Russell looks up at me, his gaze quick and assessing. I expect him to ask if I’m going to get ready, but instead he tilts his head and asks, “What’s the problem?”
I ignore the way it feels, for him to read me so easily, and swallow, giving him an apologetic look, “We might have to reschedule the appointment with the lawyer. Ettie’s sick and can’t watch Gus today?—”
“He can come along,” Russell says, straightening up and glancing down at Gus, who is eagerly ripping into a chocolate croissant. “If that’s okay with you.”
Is that okay with me? Gus might enjoy going downtown. I start to weigh the options, then remember, “It’s okay, but I still need time to find a sitter for him tonight. Ettie was supposed to take him for my shift at the market, and?—”
“I can take him,” Russell interjects, lifting his hand, as though this much was obvious.
I think about how tired he looked the other day, when we came to see him after that surgery that ran long. “No—no, Russ, this is like your one day off, and I don’t want to?—”
“If Gus wants to hang out with me,” Russell says, taking a seat on the stool and gently nudging Gus, who grins at him with a chocolate-smeared mouth. “Then that’s my plan for the night.”
I hold his gaze, stuck between how convenient this would be—who better to trust Gus with than a literal doctor?—and how much I don’t want to put him out.
When I made the decision to keep Gus, I royally pissed off my family. My parents pushed me to get an abortion. First, it was all about how bad it would look for them—their daughter having a child out of wedlock—then, when it was clear I didn’t care, it shifted to being about the burden. That they wouldn’t have time, with their busy, public lives, to be babysitters, or to help out.
I’d held strong, and it meant choosing my unborn baby over my parents.
Since then, a lot of people have made it clear that the responsibility for my kid lies with me, and that’s made it pretty difficult to let go. Even learning to lean on Ettie took me years, and only because I take Dawson for her, too.
I push away the sudden overwhelm that always comes from thinking about my parents and swallow, trying to focus on Russell and Gus, this moment in front of me.
“Okay,” I finally say, when Russell holds my stare, making it clear that he’s not going to back down. Swallowing, I nod and ignore the sweet sense of relief in my chest. I can’t get used to it. “Okay, Gus, you want to hang out with Russell tonight?”
“Yes,” he says, through a mouthful of croissant, and Russell darts me a triumphant look.
“Right, with that settled, you’d better go put on something nice,” Russell’s tone has completely changed, morphing back into his commanding, self-assured voice. He leans back againstthe kitchen counter and looks me up and down, sending a chill dancing up my spine. “Remember, Mr. Grande will be expecting my fiancée to look the part.”
