"Ethan! Hands, please," I call, backing into the kitchen. I can't go out to find him right now with muffins in the oven. I don't want a fire. But the backyard is fenced in and he's been taught tostay put inside the fence. I'm sure he's just getting into trouble somehow.
I pull the last batch from the oven and set the tray on the stovetop, then peel back the curtain to get a wider view of the yard. He's not on the swing set and he's not on the patio. I'm about to walk out there and track him down when the front door opens and Ethan comes barreling down the hallway with Caleb right behind him.
"Mom, I invited Caleb for muffins!" Ethan announces. He's beaming and out of breath and his knees are grass-stained. And while the shock of seeing the handsome Marine in my kitchen doorway makes my heart flutter a little, I also feel a bit tense that Ethan is now leaving my property to go to Caleb's house and invite him over.
"He was very persuasive," Caleb says flatly. I wonder if this man ever smiles. That first day I met him is about the only time I've ever seen that face crack a smile, and when he did, it was dazzling. I've been trying ever since to replicate it, but there must be some deep psychology going on for him to always seem so serious.
"He gets that from me." I smile at Caleb and wave him in. "Come sit down. I just pulled them out of the oven and there's plenty." Rather than being upset and chastising my son for being neighborly, I decide to go with the flow.
Caleb doesn't move right away. He looks at the kitchen table, then at Ethan who's already climbing into his chair, but he looks like he'd rather not be here. As if being kind to an eight-year-old is obligatory, and out of respect he came along. Still, he walks in and sits down obediently, looking more nervous than at home.
"Coffee?" I ask, already pouring him a cup. If I wait for him to answer, I'll be waiting a while. I'm not sure why he finds receiving charity from others difficult. Or maybe he just really doesn't like us. I don't want to be an intrusion in his life, but more and more I'm thinking maybe I am. He's always so stern and not receptive to my happiness.
"Sure."
I set the mug in front of him and then plate up the muffins, putting three on Ethan's plate and two on Caleb's. I grab the butter dish and a knife and bring those over too, then sit down across from both of them with my own coffee. My first bite of muffin is delicious, though it crumbles and makes a bit of a mess on my new table. Ethan already has one of his scarfed down before Caleb has peeled the paper off his.
"These are blueberry with a brown sugar crumble on top," I tell Caleb. "They're Ethan's favorite. I make them almost every Sunday."
Caleb picks one up and looks at it like he's inspecting it for structural integrity. Then he takes a bite and chews slowly. I watch his face for any sign of a reaction, but it's the same stolid stoicism I've grown used to. And suddenly, I’ve gone from awkwardness that my son dragged him in here to anxiety that he hates my cooking. There isn't a trace of any emotion on his face.
"Well?" I ask.
"It's good," he says, dabbing the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. I feel like an idiot for not at least giving the man a paper towel, but he seems to adjust easily. I bet in the service they didn't have fancy napkins and cutlery. He's probably used to eating with his hands on the go.
Ethan laughs through a mouthful of muffin. "Mom, he's not a foodie," he says with a grin, and I chuckle at that, wondering where he even heard that word.
"No, but he could at least pretend to have taste buds." I lift both eyebrows as I reach over and wipe some crumbs off Ethan's cheek.
Caleb takes another bite, and I swear the corner of his mouth twitches into a smile, but he kills it before it fully blossoms. He wraps both hands around the coffee mug and sits there with his shoulders slightly hunched, looking oversized in my small kitchen.
The kitchen falls into awkward silence as I take a bite and chew meticulously. I'm not one to chatter on if I feel like my talking isn't welcome, and Caleb seems to be a man of few words this morning. Those two mixed together tends to make things feel uncomfortable until Ethan decides he has something to say.
"Caleb, do you like soccer?" Ethan asks, wiping more crumbs off his chin with the back of his hand. I eye the way he gulps from his cup and cringe that he isn’t using his manners, but it doesn't seem to bother Caleb.
"I played a little when I was younger."
"Can you teach me how to do a header? Mom's afraid I'll get a concussion." Ethan is so honest and it makes me embarrassed. He makes me sound like a helicopter parent, but there's a reason those drills were banned in the sport at this age. A kid takes a header in a soccer match at his age and they give him a red card now.
"Your mother is probably right about that." I notice Caleb's eyes meet mine and a barely distinguishable nod, and I can't help it.
"See?" I point my muffin at Caleb. "Even the grumpy neighbor agrees with me."
"Grumpy?" Caleb asks, and I instantly feel bad. I didn't realize it was an insult to him, and Ethan doesn’t seem to pick up on what just happened. So I get up to grab the juice from the counter and pour Ethan another glass without answering Caleb.
My heart sinks. I don’t need this man to like me. Heavens, I just wanted to be friendly the way my son was, but now I feel like I've stuck my foot in my mouth. From the beginning, I knew this was a bad idea. He's gorgeous and I'm stuck in a warzone between being a single mom and battling to keep Derek's paws off my impressionable child. I don’t have time to worry about whether the neighbor likes me.
When we first met, I knew better than to even let myself indulge in checking him out. Now I'm reduced to being Betty Crocker and Martha Stewart, and on top of that, I find it impossible to avoid situations where I end up needing something from him. First the bike, then the fence, now he's here for muffins over a table he built because I can't do everything on my own. And if I even asked Derek to help, he'd have a nasty remark for me.
Ethan reaches for the glass, but in the process, he accidentally knocks it over and the juice races across the table toward Caleb's lap.
"Oh, no." Ethan's face drops and he freezes with both hands in the air. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
"Hey, it's okay, buddy," I say, grabbing the dish towel off the counter. "It's just juice. No big deal at all. Accidents happen."
But Caleb's already on his feet, dodging the flow. He picks up his plate and mug and moves them to the counter, then grabsthe paper towels from the holder by the stove and starts sopping up the juice on the table before it reaches the edge. He works quickly, mopping up the puddle then wiping down the surface and doesn't say a word about the juice soaking the front of his jeans.
"You don't have to do that," I tell him, reaching for the paper towels. I feel so bad. It's like shame wraps around me like a blanket and makes me want to hide.
