Dawn glances at the clock and sighs. “Alright, Westwood. It’s past three. Get outta here.”
I arch an eyebrow at her. “Since when do you keep track of my hours?”
She shrugs. “Since Hudson’s got baseball on Saturdays.”
She’s right. He does. And I should go.
I glance toward the back. It’s one of the things I love most about this town—how they look out for Hudson like he’s theirs, not just mine. How people like Dawn know his schedule better than I do some days. But loving Hudson is an easy thing to do. He’s a good kid. Does his homework, gets good grades, makes friends like it’s second nature. He’s polite without being told, remembers people’s names, holds doors open even when no one asks him to.
Most days, I wonder if he deserves more than a mom who’s always exhausted, always trying to keep up. But then I see how much this town loves him, how people like Dawn make sure he’s got what he needs before I even have to ask, and I think maybe I’m doing something right.
Dawn nudges me again. “Go. We’re good.”
I hesitate. “You sure?”
She nods toward the kitchen. “Nell’s coming in. We’re covered.”
Nell’s one of the managers at Bluebell. A damn good one. She keeps the waitstaff in line, runs the place just as well as I do, maybe better.
I nod, untying my apron and tossing it onto the hook by the pass-through. “Alright. But if Wendell asks for anything else, tell him we’re fresh out.”
Dawn smirks. “Already planning on it, honey.”
I shake my head, laughing, as I head toward the office to wake up Hudson. I push the office door open with my hip, already knowing what I’ll find.
Hudson, curled into the bean bag, arms folded over his chest, hood pulled low, mouth parted just slightly in sleep. His baseball magazine isbalanced on his stomach, the cover curling at the edges, pages soft from being flipped through too many times. He’s getting too tall for this. His feet almost touch the floor now, his legs stretching longer every year.
I hesitate, letting myself watch him for a second. His face is softer like this, the sharp edges of his growing older smoothed out in sleep. I wonder how much longer I’ll get this version of him—the one who still dozes off in my office, who still reaches for my hand without thinking when we cross a busy street.
I kneel beside him, shaking his shoulder gently. “Hey, bud,” I murmur. “Time to get up.”
He groans, stretching his legs out with a dramatic sigh, but his eyes stay closed.
I shake him again. “We gotta go. Baseball.”
That gets him. His eyes crack open, unfocused for a second before he registers what I’ve said. “Baseball?” His voice is heavy with sleep, drawn-out like he’s still processing.
I nod. “Yeah. Home first, then practice.”
He sits up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face, then reaches for his magazine and folds it under his arm. A habit, something that’s just part of him now. If I went out to the car and checked his backpack, I’d find at least three others stuffed inside, along with crumpled snack wrappers and stray baseball cards he keeps forgetting to put in his binder.
I pull my jacket off the chair. “Go warm up the car for me. I just need to finish up some paperwork real quick.”
He doesn’t hesitate. Just grins, swipes the keys off my desk, and heads for the back door like I didn’t just hand him his favorite daydream.
This is it, for him. Step one. First, it’s warming up the car. Then it’s backing it out of the driveway. Then it’s taking himself to practice without me at all.
I catch the look on his face before he disappears outside. “Don’t even think about it.”
He throws me a lazy smile. “Wasn’t thinking about anything.”
I roll my eyes. Sure he wasn’t.
Hudson grins and disappears outside.
I let out a slow breath and turn back to my desk. Just a few things to sign off on—order sheets, schedules, invoices. Things I don’t even need to think about, just skim and sign, my name in swirling ink over and over again.
When I’m done, I grab my jacket and catch my reflection in the mirror hanging on the wall.
