“So… it’s nothing to worry about?”
“That’s right.”
I felt like I could finally breathe easily for the first time since she told me about the biopsy.
“Thank God.” I wasn’t a religious man, but I meant those words. If he was out there, then I appreciated the hell out of this miracle.
“I know you’re coming over in a few days, but I thought you’d want to know now.”
“I did. Thank you.” Her mention of our Sunday visit made something occur to me. “Hey, do you think it would be okay if I brought someone when I come to visit you on Sunday? Well, two people.”
“You know anyone is welcome. Two people? Are they friends of yours?”
“It’s a woman I’m seeing and her son.”
There was a beat of silence. Then, “Lordy, I had no idea you were even seeing a woman. How long has this been going on? What’s her name? You say she has a son? How old is the boy?”
“Whoa, slow down,” I said, but her enthusiasm made me smile. “Her name is Erica, and yes, she has a seven-year-old son named Dominic.”
“Seven, huh? I can work with that.”
“What’s that mean?”
“You know I fostered for many years. I still have tons of toys and games in storage. I’ll find some things for him to play with.”
“I still have to ask if she wants to come.”
“Don’t be silly. Of course, she will. If not, you’ll convince her. You can be very charming, you know.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” I said. “But I’ll do my best.”
“Well, I need to go. I have so much cleaning to do before Sunday.”
I rolled my eyes. “You don’t need to do anything special. I’m not bringing the damn Queen. Erica is very down-to-earth.”
“Language,” she admonished, but she sounded distracted. “I’ll talk to you later, Raul. I just saw a cobweb in the corner. The house needs to be dusted.”
The line went dead, and I tucked my phone back into my pocket, still grinning.
Sixteen
Erica
I ran my hands over my skirt, smoothing it down. Then, I opened the visor above my head to check that my hair wasn’t frizzy. I was meeting Trainer’s foster mother, and there were butterflies in my stomach. This felt like a big step, and I wanted it to go well. I kept wanting to chew on my fingernails - a bad habit that I’d had since I was a child - but I was forcing myself not to do it. I didn’t want my fingernail polish to chip.
We were in Trainer’s truck, a red crew-cab. It was weird seeing him in a vehicle like this. The man seemed to be made for riding. He looked so natural there. But the truck was nice, with heated leather seats and a quiet engine. It was also meticulously clean, making me think that he didn’t drive it much.
When we pulled up in front of his foster mother’s house, Trainer put the car in park and reached over to grab my hand, which was brushing imaginary lint off my blouse.
“Don’t worry,” he said, giving my fingers a squeeze.
“I’m not worried,” I lied.
“Oh, so this level of fidgeting is normal for you?”
“Maybe,” I replied stubbornly.
“Okay, then. My bad,” Trainer said, releasing my hand and opening his car door. “I’m glad you’re not nervous, because she’s excited to meet you.”
