At that, my mind wandered to Frank. I’d sure as hell spent the better part of a lifetime convincing myself that whoever I was with at the time was as good or better. As I looked down at today’s TJ’s Salvage Yard T-shirt, I remembered the time that TJ had left me at the bar without telling me because he’d won fifty bucks on a scratch-off and went down to the gas station to turn it in. He ran into his buddy Sammy, and they’d bought beer with the winnings, gotten drunk down by the pier, and forgotten all about me. I’d had to thumb home.
At the time, I was just looking to fill that huge, Frank-size hole in my heart with anyone and everyone. But I was old enough now that I’d accepted that some wounds just don’t heal, never ever in your whole life. Same as Wagner was never going to taste chicken like his grandma’s again, I’d never love like I’d loved Frank, no matter how many T-shirts I had to prove I’d tried. That love I had for Frank was infinite. Evenwhen both of us were gone, it’d still be out there floating around in the universe. That part of me couldn’t reason out why I had refused to answer his calls or see him since that night outside the Beach Pub.
But it boiled down to one thing, a thing I didn’t like admitting: I was scared. When you’ve been nothing but left your whole life, it’s what you come to expect. And with Frank, it wasn’t just being scared of what could happen. It was being scared of what could happenagain.
But I didn’t say that to the kid, obviously.
“So, kind of like Brooke,” Wagner said matter-of-factly.
“Kind of like Brooke what?” Gray asked, making her way into the kitchen, head wet from the shower.
Wagner shrugged. “Diana’s chicken is kind of like how Brooke is the replacement for you.”
I could tell it was taking all the strength in Gray’s little body not to get persnickety about that, but she did a real good job hiding it.
“Sweetie,” Gray said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I don’t think that’s it at all. I’m me and Brooke’s Brooke and Dad’s Dad, and none of us are chicken. We’ve all made some choices this year that I’m sure have been tough on you.”
He shook his head. “No, Mom, you don’t get it. She’s just like you. Sometimes she says stuff, and it’s what you would say, and it’s so weird. I don’t get at all why Dad would want to marry her now. It’s like being married to you, except she isn’t asnice as you, and he’s always having to give her something so she’ll be happy.” He paused. “And you haven’t ever cared about presents and stuff unless they’re from me.”
Gray pursed her lips to suppress a smile, and I winked at her.
“Why don’t we dive into dinner? I’ve been dying for some mac and cheese,” Gray said.
“Oh yes, please,” I chimed in. “It’s already on the table.”
I took Wagner by the shoulder and said, “Listen, I know your grandma’s chicken is the best in the world, and I can’t compete with that. But maybe you can give my biscuits a try and see if they’re the best in the world?”
Wagner sat down and slathered butter on his biscuit, then a little bit of jam. I waited, holding my breath. This was a make-or-break moment, do or die. If he liked this biscuit, I was in. He’d hang with me in the kitchen while I was cooking or ask me to drive him to the pool. We’d be thick as thieves just like that. But if he didn’t like it… if he didn’t like it, then I was toast. Burnt toast.
Gray winked back at me like she knew all the stuff that was going on in my head. Wagner swallowed, wiped his mouth, and smiled. But was it a happy smile? Or a sarcastic smile like I wasn’t nearly as good as I thought and he was going to prove it? He took a sip of water. I darn near thought the hands on the clock had stopped.
“Diana,” he said, “you’re right. That is the best biscuit I’ve ever had.”
I breathed a sigh of relief and smiled triumphantly.
Wagner said, “Mom, Diana’s cool. She can stay as long as she keeps cooking instead of you.”
Man + stomach = love. All day, every day, every single time. If only every man in my life had been as easy as Wagner to hook with nothing more than my homemade biscuits.
CHAPTER 10
gray: zero idea
The bad part about your almost ex-husband getting your eight-year-old a cell phone is that, well, he got your eight-year-old a cell phone. The good part is that an eight-year-old with a cell phone will Snapchat his mom pictures of himself and his friends all week so she can keep up with what he’s doing.
Evidently, the ex-husband will do something similar.
Why in the world is Marcy at my office?Greg texted me Monday morning a couple weeks later as I was rushing around getting ready for my dad’s visit.
I looked around. That was weird. Marcy hadn’t come by for her usual coffee this morning.I have zero idea,I replied.
Sure,he typed back.
I was going to argue with him, but I didn’t have the energy. I had done enough of that already.
On Saturday, I had been so excited when Greg brought Wagner back to me from Raleigh. As he came flying throughthe door that night, backpack on his back, I’d said, “Oh my gosh, I missed you so much!” We had been careful to make sure that he had two of everything, one at my house, one at his dad’s, so the poor kid didn’t feel like he was packing up and getting shifted around every week. Even still, he was always transporting stuff back and forth. He threw his arms around my neck, and I realized that I barely even had to stoop to kiss him on the cheek. I’d almost said, “Don’t you ever leave me again!” but I caught myself. It was habit, but I had to be more careful.
“Hey, Mom,” he’d said, “do you want to go play tennis with me next week?”
