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Plus, I take pride in returning Bear to Hudson in his best form. To show him what a good mother I am. Or,will be.
“Good. Daddy’s stones went super far,” he says, reachingfor a half-full jar of jam, which Juni swipes before he can reach.
“Not this one,” she says, her tone stern at first, but soft as she adds, “but this one is yours to play with.”
While I set up our easels, mix paint, and plan today’s art project, Juni lets Bear play with food.
I know,don’t play with your foodis a huge thing growing up. But she also teaches Bear that breaking the rules is okay sometimes, too, so playing with it under her supervision is just fine.
He plunks his little fist into the open canning jar, coating his fingers in the violet-colored jam. “Smells yummy,” he says as he fans his fingers out, chunks of fruit falling onto the wax-paper-coated countertop. Juni always thinks ahead.
“It’s a trial recipe,” Juni says, pulling the pencil from her bun as she jots down extract amounts on the spiral notebook next to her. “But yours to play with for now.”
“Bear, do you want to eat before or after we paint?” I ask, coming behind the stool to swoop him off while tickling his sides. He squeals just as Ivy enters the room, yawning.
“Heya, Grizzly,” Ivy greets, ruffling his hair the way everyone must do. It’s hard not to; Bear’s sporting a thick head of silken, chocolatey waves that shine in the sun, fluffy and beautiful. Not unlike his daddy’s hair.
I bring my focus back to Bear, unwilling tothinkabout Hudson that way in his son’s presence. And yes, I know all I’ve done is draw a comparison between Bear’s hair and his daddy’s but it doesn’t take much to put me in a moany, achy place where I need to be alone to think about Hud.
I don’t want to be in that headspace right now. Allsquirmy in my seat while I paint with Bear, sweating, trying to regain focus and composure all the while the only thing I want to do is toss the canvas and fuck myself while screaming his daddy’s name.
No.
Bear deserves better than an absent-minded horndog.
Bear deserves the world. Just like his daddy but… different.
“Painting today?” she asks him as I finish dropping his paints into his tray. I keep a plastic tray handy for when he comes over, and the rule is, anything in the tray is yours to use on your project. I hand him said tray and he clutches it to his chest like a pirate with his treasure.
“Yeah,” he answers, “then we’re eating lunch.”
“Peanut butter and marionberry,” I tell Ivy, who nods in support.
“Wow, that sounds fun. Maybe I’ll come peek at your art later,” she says, winking.
He twists his torso, blinking up at me with his wide, innocent eyes. “But we’re paintin’ a surprise, right, Dolly?”
I volley my head. “Kind of. More like, it’s a puzzle we’re making. And it won’t make sense until all the pieces come together.”
I rest my hand on his shoulder and guide him toward the back door, his little boots clunking against the hardwood. “I can’t wait,” he breathes, fishing around in his tray to assess what we’re working with today.
Once we’re in the barn and I have him set up next to me, I tell him today’s paint project theme. Every time we paint together, I choose a theme, and when his pieceis finished and long dried out, I add his piece of art to the greater piece I’m working on.
“Today is going to be chartreuse with moss glued over the top.” I pluck a piece of crafting moss from the tray, and lift it up, holding it under my nostril. Bear giggles and swipes the moss from my hands.
“Chartoose?” he says, mimicking me by holding the moss under his nose, too.
“Chartreuse,” I say, overly annunciating. He repeats it back.
“Chartreuse.”
I smile. “That’s right. And it’s kind of a yellowy green,” I explain, pointing to the place on my palette where I’ve begun mixing yellow ochre with toxic green, a new color I picked up at the supply store that Ivy frequents in the next town over.
He dips his brush into the mixed color we share, and smears it along his canvas carefully. “Looks like the tree by the creek.”
“The weeping birch,” I offer, guiding his hand slightly as he nears the canvas edge. With his small hand in mine, our connection burns through me. I’m meant to be in Bear’s life, I can feel it in the way his breaths come easy around me, the syncope in our crooked grins, how in tune I am with his needs. I’m meant to be in his life, and that sureness I feel in my bones only strengthens my belief that I am meant to be Hudson’s girl.Without a doubt.
If we weren’t meant to be, he would not have moved next door. He would not ask me to babysit. His son would not like me. The universe is just not that fucked up. I refuse to believeit. Things may be complicated, but as I mentioned, I’m smart. I can sift through it. But asking me to believe that they’re just people that moved next door and that everything that has and does happen between us is just a fluke? No fucking way.
