A song inspired by me. It was silly to feel as if I’d written it myself. I’d only said a line in passing that Hunter and Ivy had turned into a breathtaking work of art. But still, it felt like it partially belonged to me too, and that made me swell with pride and love. I must remember this moment when dealing with the hassle of a public relationship. Our union had produced this song. What else might we make together?
Tyler came homeabout fifteen minutes later, dirty and smelling a bit ripe. “Go shower,” I said. “Hunter’s bringing Mexican. Then you’ll have your guitar lesson.”
“Mom, that’s the greatest news ever,” Tyler said, before speeding up the stairs.
Hunter arrived a little after seven with several bags of takeout from my favorite local Mexican restaurant.
He set aside the bags to give me a kiss. “How you doing?”
“I’m okay. I’ll tell you about it after dinner.”
Tyler came in, hair damp and cheeks pink, smelling much better than he had just minutes ago.
“Your mom said you like burritos, so I ordered the macho size,” Hunter said.
“Awesome,” Tyler said. “We’re eating so much better now that you’re here.”
Soon, we had our plates filled and were seated at the table. Hunter had ordered enchiladas for himself and three pork street tacos for me.
“How was practice?” Hunter asked Tyler.
Tyler, holding his burrito in both hands, finished chewing before answering. “It was great. I was on fire today. Coach Alex said I must have eaten my Wheaties this morning, but I didn’t know what that meant.”
Hunter and I exchanged a humored glance.
“You’re too young to know that one,” Hunter said, before explaining the cereal campaign from decades ago.
“Regardless, it was a compliment,” I said.
Tyler went on talking about baseball. He was excited for the game tomorrow against our rival high school. “Their pitcher’s really good, but I think Peter’s better. And Rick got cleared to play tomorrow, so that’s really good.”
“Who’s Rick?” Hunter asked.
“He’s our first baseman,” Tyler said. “He broke his arm ice skating during Christmas break, so he’s been out. Rehab seems to have worked. He was throwing great today.”
Tyler went on about various things in relation to his team, chattering more than he usually did when it was just the two of us. Hunter asked questions, which clearly delighted my son.
He needed a father. A man like Hunter who would listen without judgment. Who would show an interest in a fifteen-year-old boy who lived for baseball and music. Who could be a better match for Tyler than Hunter?
“I have some news of my own,” Hunter said, after the subject of baseball seemed to have reached its limit. “I quit my job at the bar.”
“It’s about time,” I said. “You’re a songwriter, not a bartender.”
“Now that I’m writing again, I can say that. But this past year, I wasn’t sure that was true any longer.”
“And then you met my mom.” Tyler grinned, like he’d been the one to match us. Maybe he had. There were the guitar lessons, after all.
“Yes, and then I met your mom, my new muse.”
“So much pressure,” I said, teasing.
“I want to spend more time with you two,” Hunter said. “Which means working nights is no longer an option.”
“Cool,” Tyler said. “Because we like having you here.”
I was pleased to hear this, obviously. Hunter was reclaiming his career. But what about mine? Was it really on a steady decline? I could be dropped from my publisher, especially if I refused to do as suggested and sell my soul to the gossip gods. Who was I if not a writer?
I must have sighed because they both stopped conversing to look at me.
