And that’s as much as I’m prepared to say about that.
Alex stares down at his feet for a long while, his brows pulled together in a deep frown. Eventually, he asks, “What does he want with you now?”
“What makes you think he wants something?”
He rolls his eyes. “I’m not dumb, and I know how guys think.”
Well, hell, that’s a loaded statement. And one I don’t want to hear or think about coming from my son. But he’s almost fifteen, I have to remind myself. Of course, he’s thinking all kinds of teenage-guy things I’d rather not know about.
“How … guys … think,” I repeat slowly, looking over to find my son avoiding my eyes, his flushed face no doubt the mirror to my own. We had the broad strokes sex talk when he first hit puberty, but after this conversation, I’m thinking I might need to psych myself up for the more detailed version soon.
“Yeah,” he says forcefully. “I see the way he looks at you.”
Okaaaaay, this is not at all the way I saw this going. If there’s anything I’ve learned about dealing with teenagers in the last few years, though, it’s that things typically go better when I speak to them as frankly and honestly as possible. They want to be treated like adults, and while their behavior is notalways reflective of that, what with the whole less-than-fully-formed-brains and all, they are generally more receptive to things when I respect and acknowledge they’re no longer little kids either. So I mentally square my shoulders to get real with my son.
“You’re right. He wants us to try again.”
“Like … to date?” Alex’s face tells me exactly how he feels about that. Sam and I were never demonstrative, even in the earlier years when we were still sort of trying. And I’ve remained single since he left, too busy to even think about dating, even casually, so the boys have never had occasion to think of me in that context. This is likely an uncomfortable idea for Alex on more levels than one, suddenly being forced to see me as a woman and not just his mother.
I clear my throat. “Yeah.”
“Well … are you going to?”
“Honestly, I don’t know.”
He continues to avoid my eyes, picking furiously at a hangnail on his thumb. “Why?”
“It’s just been a long time. And there’s history. I’m not sure I want to go back there. I’m not sure I’m ready for that,” I tell him as truthfully as I can. “There are other things to think about, too.You. Your brother.”
He rears back, looking at mefinally. “Me?”
“Yes, you. I’ve never dated before. It would be a big change. And I’d never want to do anything that would make you uncomfortable or upset.”
“Oh,” he bites his lip contemplatively, staring down at where the cheerleaders have now taken the field for half-time. People all around us are getting to their feet, either wanting to stretch their legs, in need of a bathroom break, or heading to the small concession cart the school rents for the bigger games.
He’s quiet for so long, I think he’s done with this topic of conversation until he asks, “But … you loved him?”
I suck in a deep breath and blow it out slowly through my nose.
“Once,” I admit softly.
“And he loved you?”
I dip my chin. “Mm-hmm.”
He’s silent for another long moment, and then he says, “I see Izzy over there. Think I’m gonna go say ‘Hi’.”
The girl he’d done the computer project with, the one from the library who had been making doe eyes at Riley, along with her friend.
“Sure.”
I smile at the memory of their obvious crush, but as I watch Alex approach the group of girls, I can’t help but notice the way Izzy’s eyes light up, and I wonder if maybe the real crush is on my son.
Yep, better move that sex talk up the priority list.
Alone during the second half—Priya and Alex both having ditched me to remain with their friends—I watch my eldest son out on the field. I admire his obvious skill. His speed, the way he handles the ball. His height and the broad shoulders he’s only just starting to grow into. There’s no mistaking the familiar athletic build.
So like his father.
