So, when he calls asking if I can still come out for a while, I’m already in my pajamas, sitting up in bed with a book.
I smile softly at the way he seems so eager to see me. And then I say, “I really am exhausted.”
“That makes sense. You worked a long day and then you had to care for the boys.”
“I don’t mind caring for them,” I tell him. It’s a sentence I probably wouldn’t have said before today.
“I know you don’t. You’re an amazing mom.”
“And they’re amazing boys,” I say.
Do I sound defensive? I hope not. I really don’t want to assume the worst about EJ.
I clear my throat. “EJ?”
“Yeah?”
“I hate to ask you this, but people kept coming to the kettle corn booth today.”
“Lots of customers, huh?”
“Yes. Customers, and also people talking about you—about us.”
“Ahhh. Yeah. I got some of that too.”
I blow out a breath and then I say, “A few of them brought up the boys.”
“Yes. I got asked about the boys too,” he says. “I told people the boys are a totally separate situation. You and I are dating. It's not about the boys.”
I go quiet. Everything in me stills as if someone flicked a light switch and the room went dark.
EJ says, “I was really looking forward to seeing you tonight.”
I don’t say anything for a beat and then I ask him, “Can we take a rain check?”
“Of course. Anything for you, Angie.”
Anything for me.
Maybe even taking on my boys out of obligation—because he has to if he wants to be with me.
“I think I’m going to get some sleep,” I tell EJ.
“Sweet dreams, Angie. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Sweet dreams,” I tell him, but my words feel like they’re coming out through cotton.
My head spins. There’s a small thought that I’m getting this all wrong. The memory of him taking the hit from the boys in the grocery store surprises me. I smile softly. I took his playfulness as a sign that he wanted to be a part of the boys’ life. The louder voice in my head, along with the chorus of voices from today at the kettle corn booth, all say EJ’s not interested in my boys—at least, not in a fatherly way.
And why would he be?
I know better than to try to process these thoughts alone. I’m not a teenager in high school, passing notes to the boy I have a crush on. I’m a grown woman—a mom.
I hang up with EJ and immediately dial Laura. I bring my hand up to my temple and rub in a small circle. Then I sink down under the covers.
“Hey,” Laura answers.
“Who is it?” Rob asks in the background.
