He nods. “Okay.”
We hear the car pull into the driveway. Sam looks out the window to confirm that it is in fact Rhett’s mom. “That’s her.”
“Are you sure?” I don’t know why I say it. It’s very clearly Rhett’s mom, Jane’s minivan.
Sam smirks. “Pretty sure. Are you going to be okay?”
“Me? Of course I am.” I open my arms for a hug and he steps into them. I hold him tighter than necessary, not wanting to let go.
I walk him outside and do the obligatory smile-and-wave routine with Jane. We exchange the usual pleasantries, and though I already know she has my number, I can’t help myself—I ask again, just to be sure. She reassures me with a kind smile and promises the boys will be in bed at a decent hour.
I keep waving until their taillights disappear at the end ofthe street. Only then do I lower my arm, suddenly heavy, and head back inside.
The silence hits first. The house feels hollow, almost vacant. Like someone turned the volume down on life. It’s like I’ve lost a limb and only notice it’s gone when I try to use it.
I hover in the entryway, unsure what to do with myself. I could still order the pizza, I guess. But what’s the point without Sam sitting across the table, demolishing half of it before I’ve even finished my first slice? Besides, my appetite’s gone. It left in the minivan.
Instead, I drift into the kitchen on autopilot. The cupboards open without me thinking, and soon I’m holding a wineglass I barely ever use. I open a bottle of red one of the sweet ladies in my aquafitness class gave me for Christmas. I’m not much of a drinker, but tonight feels like one of those nights. Maybe it’ll take the edge off.
I lean against the kitchen counter, glass in hand, and try to reason with myself. I know I’m being dramatic. He’s twelve. This is good for him—healthy, even. He’s supposed to stretch his wings, have adventures, sleepovers, inside jokes that don’t include me. And the Zakems are lovely people. Jane’s the kind of mom who brings cupcakes to chess club and remembers everyone’s birthday. I know Sam will be safe.
The truth is, watching him grow up lately has been…complicated. Beautiful, but painful. We’ve always been inseparable, especially after Shawn left. I became Sam’s entire world. But in reality, he was always mine. From the very first day he was placed in my arms, he became my centre of gravity.
Now his world is expanding, and I’m terrified of what that means. How long before I’m no longer the centre of it?
I force myself upstairs, every step heavier than it should be, and peel off my work clothes. My dresser drawer groans as I rummage for something soft and forgiving to sink into. That’s when I spot it—the red plaid onesie.
I bought it for Sam’s very first Christmas, and got him a matching little sleeper with feet and a hood that made him look like a baby lumberjack. Every year after that, I kept the tradition going, buying him a new set as he grew. I never replaced mine. It became a ritual: him in fresh flannel, me stubbornly clinging to the original. A couple of years ago he rolled his eyes and announced he was too old for onesies, switching to red plaid pants instead. But me? I held on.
I pull it from the drawer, the fabric soft and thin from a decade of washes, it feels velvety between my fingers. Stripping down to nothing but panties, I step into it, one leg at a time. The fit is…snug. There are at least a dozen tiny buttons up the front, and by the time I get the last one fastened, I’m slightly out of breath, like I’ve wrestled with an uncooperative toddler.
I turn to the mirror, fully aware of how absurd I must look. Technically, the onesie still fits. Realistically? It looks like it was spray-painted on. My hips are wider than they were twelve years ago, my stomach softer, my butt more substantial. At least my boobs have held their own—perky little soldiers refusing to surrender. But the overall effect is less “cozy Christmas pajamas” and more “festive sausage casing.”
But they’re the perfect choice for my evening plans that consist mostly of the following: wallowing.
Wineglass in hand, I pad back downstairs and sink into the couch, half hoping that the cushions will swallow me up. The TV flickers to life, casting a pale glow across the empty room. I scroll through channels, searching for anything loud or funny enough to drown out the silence pressing in around me. Nothing sticks. I usually only watch TV with Sam. Our running commentary is half the fun, and without him the whole exercise feels hollow.
With a sigh, I abandon the remote and head for the shelf that houses our modest DVD collection. My fingers trail over the movies until they land on a familiar favourite. Comfort ina case. I pop it open, ready to feed it into our ancient DVD player that miraculously still works.
That’s when I hear it—three quick knocks at the door.
My heart stutters. Sam. He must have forgotten something. Or maybe he’s changed his mind?
I don’t walk, I sprint to the front door. The flannel between my thighs rubbing together as I do. I fling the door open, out of breath and fully expecting to see my son standing there.
But it’s not Sam.
No, it’s not Sam at all.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
ARTHUR
I don’t knowwhere to look. Scratch that—I know where Iwantto look, but I really, really shouldn’t. Doesn’t matter. I’m completely incapable of tearing my eyes away.
Elliot stands in front of me wearing a red plaid one-piece pajama situation. Or maybe it’s the other way around—maybe the onesie is wearing her, becausedamn. The thing is painted onto her body, stretching over slender shoulders, hugging her full breasts, clinging to the curve of her hips and the length of her thighs like it was tailor-made for sin instead of sleep.
It’s ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. A flannel pajama onesie that covers her from neck to ankle should be the opposite of sexy. And yet I’ve never been this turned on in my entire life.
