“Can you wait?”
“No. I’m hungry now.”
Of course he was. “Okay. Let’s go find the hospital cafeteria.”
“I’m not that kind of hungry.”
I blinked, confused. “What kind of hungry are you?”
“Max said there is a vending machine down the hall with candy and chips and soda. I’m that kind of hungry.”
“Ah, I see. You’re junk food hungry?”
“Exactly.”
“I can take him to get something,” Quinn offered.
“No, stay here, in case Keith comes in with word on the baby. I’ll take him. We’ll be right back.”
I walked Noah out of the room… or, more accurately,Iwalked. He bounced. Clearly the kid was having the time of his life. Not only was he now best friends with the McKallister grandkids, but he and Scott had just had a lively discussion about throw-up that was as funny as it was stomach-turning.
I put a hand on his shoulder to slow him down. The last thing I needed was to add sugar to Tigger the Tiger.
“Mom.”
“Yes.”
“I wish Quinn’s family was our family.”
There. He’d said it. We were on the same page, both desiring the same thing. Those photographs on the side table in our living room, the ones of just Noah and me, weren’t enough for him either.
“I wish they were ours too, bud.”
“Maybe you can marry Quinn.”
Ooh. That was definitely not where I wanted his mind to go. I could dream, but not Noah. Quinn and I were a long way off from a happily ever after.
“Maybe,” I replied, knowing I shouldn’t be giving him hope but not wanting to squash my own. After all, every so often, a girl got that dream. Why couldn’t it be me?
We arrived at the vending machine, and Noah picked his soda first.
“Be careful with this, okay?” I said, popping the top and handing him the drink. Noah was the type of kid that, when it came to spilling, he was more likely to than not. “What snack do you want?”
“Cheetos.”
Wonderful. His fingerprints would be all over the hospital.
I was crouched down waiting for Noah’s chip order to fall when I heard the collision. I cringed, hoping beyond hope my maximum-destruction son had simply walked into a wall.
No luck.
“Whoa, dude. Gotta watch where you’re going.”
“Sorry,” I heard Noah say.
More cringing as I rotated in my crouched position only to see a pair of worn-out boots covered in grape soda. The owner shook the soda off his boots, then proceeded to rub the purple liquid around on the floor. If he thought he was being helpful, he wasn’t. I don’t know how I knew who owned those boots. I just did. My eyes slowly made their way up the long body of arguably the most popular rock star alive today before they finally came to rest on Jake McKallister’s very famous face.
“I’m so sorry. My son is…” I shook my head. I had nothing. No way to defend his actions, given that I’d warned him to be careful no less than a minute before the collision. “Noah, go get some paper towels from the bathroom over there.”
