It is not just a random grocery haul. This is curated, tailored, thought out. He got Jace's favorite fruit yogurt, my favorite chips, the exact brand of frozen dumplings I hoard. Which means he looked, read, scrolled through years of photos and captions and comment threads. "Unbelievable," I whisper. "The man did research."
I haul the bags inside, set them on the counter, and lean on my palms.
This isn't a sugar daddy thing. It's something a lot more careful because it involves genuine effort, and the idea of that makes mypulse pick up in a way that annoys the hell out of me. Footsteps patter behind me. Jace shuffles into the kitchen, hair wild, eyes half-closed. "Mama," he says, rubbing his face. "Breakfast."
"Yeah," I reply quietly. "We can do breakfast."
I pull out eggs and bread. He climbs onto his little stool and watches me like he is supervising. I hand him the berries and let him pick out the "best ones", which mostly means he eats half of them.
While the toast pops, he tugs at my shirt. "Mama, can we ride my bike later?"
"Maybe after preschool," I say. "We'll see."
He nods and points at the new cereal box. "Can I have that too?"
"Pick one," I say. "You're not having both."
He picks both.
I sigh. "Fine. Small portions."
He grins and climbs down to get his bowl.
I make my coffee, plate the toast, and try not to think too hard about the man who sent us groceries like he already knew the shape of our morning.
Ten minutes later, his shoes are on the wrong feet, his hair is sticking up in five directions, and I am chasing him with a wet wipe because somehow, syrup found his elbow.
The morning moves fast after that. Snack box packed. Water bottle filled. Backpack zipped.
When I finally grab my keys and open the door, he runs past me toward the stairs.
"Preschool time," he yells.
I take a breath, grab the grocery receipt from the counter, shove it in my bag, and follow him out.
Because at some point today, I need to decide what the hell I am going to do about Gabe.
The morning moves the way my mornings always do once we step out the door. Jace chatters all the way to preschool, mostly about a girl in his class who "eats crayons, but only the safe ones." I drop him off with a hug and watch him run inside. His backpack bounces behind him. He never once looks back. I stand there for a second, then force myself toward the car.
I have a shoot today with a new café that wants pictures of their breakfast menu. It should be easy work, but I feel off balance the whole drive. I park outside the place and sit there longer than I should, staring at the steering wheel while my brain repeats one useless thought.
Gabe sent me groceries.
I shake it off and grab my camera bag. The café owner, a woman named Tara, waves me in. She has short hair that keeps falling into her eyes and a notebook full of scribbles.
"You must be Lena," she says.
"That's me," I answer. "Show me what you want shot and I'll get set up."
She leads me to the counter. Plates are already waiting. Eggs. Waffles. A big bowl of fruit. I start unpacking lenses and cleaning a smudge from my camera screen.
"You okay?" she asks, watching me a little too closely.
"I'm fine," I say. "Just a long morning."
She nods like she understands. I take a few test shots. The light looks good. Tara places a fork on one of the plates, and I adjust it without thinking.
"You're fast," she says.
