“Hello, Sawyer.” She swallows, and the nervous bounce of her left leg speeds up.
“Are you—” He looks at me. “Were you just?—”
“Leaving,” she says. “Lucca was nice enough to visit with my nephew, who is a fan. Big fan. And now we’re leaving. That’s all.”
The elevator door opens again, and she’s out the door—except we’re on floor two. What else can I do? I’m literally carrying her child. So, I follow the anxious woman.
“Is there someone else you wanted to visit?” I say, Wyatt growing heavier and heavier by the second.
“Um, no. I—” She looks back just as the elevator door presses shut. “I just didn’t like the way he was looking at us.”
“You’re right. Just by looking at you, he knows how much you want me.” I’m trying to tease her, to ease that worry wrinkle forming down the center of her forehead. But it only deepens its crease.
“Shut up,” she says. “Isn’t there a stairway in this place?”
“To your right. And sure, I don’t mind carrying your dead weight nephew all over this building. Don’t worry about me.”
“Great,” she huffs, turning right. “Let’s go.”
Clearly my sarcasm didn’t translate. I heft little Wyatt into a more secure hold and stay right on Maggie’s heels as she pushes open the stairwell door. It’s only one floor down. I’ll be fine. Maggie, I’m not so sure.
“You know, none of this is a big deal,” I say when we’re in the privacy of the stairwell.
“Sure. For you. They won’t get rid of you. They’ll fire me.”
“Maggie,” I say, stopping on the landing and banking on how much she loves this kid. She won’t leave, not while he’s in my arms. “I would never let that happen.”
“Not everything is in your control, Saint Lucca.” She reaches out, snagging onto the end of the sleeve of my shirt, and pulling me behind her.
“We’re back to name-calling.” I sigh. “Great.”
Thirty-Three
Half a banana creampie equals one giant sugar crash for my little guy. Lucca helped him, but together they ate the entire thing—in between playing with Nanners. And I just watched them.
It’s late, and thankfully we have fairly decent spring weather. I’m not running into an April snow shower or rainstorm at least. The roads are dry; the moon is bright. Yep, conditions are great. So, why won’t my stomach stop turning? Am I really a ball of nerves over Saint Lucca? That makes no sense.
So instead of listening to what I know my mother would tell me—“Examine your feelings. Feel your feelings. Then let’s talk.”—I turn on Wyatt’s favorite Elvis playlist. I keep it low, turning on only the front speakers of the car; no need to wake him when he’s sleeping all sugared-up and content. I sing, eyes on the road, and try really,reallyhard to not feel a darn thing.
Sorry, Mom.
I distract myself the whole way home. I carry Wyatt inside—who I’m pretty sure has doubled in size since the last time I picked him up—and lay him in his bed.
“You made it back.” Mom stands outside Wyatt’s room.
I slap a hand to my heart, startled, and apparently not nearly as calm as I hoped to be after so much distraction. “You’re up?”
“Well, you aren’t able to wait up for yourself, so I had to do it.” She laughs. “What’d you do to him? Make him run a marathon?”
“That would have been healthier.” I shake my head. “He and Lucca ate an entire banana cream pie tonight.”
“Ah,Lucca.”
My throat tightens. “I told you I was visiting him.”
“You said you were visiting a friend. You didn’t say who.”
“Oh.” I swallow, shrug, and avoid Mom’s direct eye contact. “It wasn’t important. No big deal.”
