He stares at me like he’s asking a math question with emotional consequences and then looks back at the photos just long enough for me to send out a quick string of texts.
Me
HELP!
Me
YOU LEFT PHOTOS ON THE TABLE!
Me
WHY THE HELL DID YOU NOT BURN THESE?
Me
HARPER, HE IS ASKING QUESTIONS THAT I DON’T KNOW HOW YOU WANT ME TO ANSWER!
Me
I AM 30 SECONDS FROM PASSING OUT.
“Did you love my mom?”
JESUS FUCKING CHRIST.
Why don’t kids come with warning labels?
HARPER
Oh…shit…
Oh yeah. That’s real helpful. Thank you.
I shove my phone into my pocket and clear my throat, buying myself as much time as possible before I answer Connor.
“Well,” I say carefully, “uh, your mom was very special to me. We were…uh, friends.” I clear my throat. “We were friends.”
He tilts his head, eyeing me in that way that lets me know he’s either very confused or he straight up doesn’t believe any of the bullshit I’m throwing at him. “Special friends who kiss?”
Fuck, it’s hot in here.
I’m sweating.
I’m physically sweating.
“Hey,” I say gently, crouching to his height. “Sometimes people mean a lot to each other when they’re young. And life gets…complicated.”
He studies me for a long, too-perceptive moment and then out of nowhere asks, “Do you still like her?”
Do I still?—
I flinch and pull my phone from my pocket again, pretending I just received a text.
“Ope! It’s my coach. Give me two seconds, bud.”
Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!
I’m lying to my own kid because I don’t have the balls to answer his questions.
