“I’m not the only one who needs to slay demons this week,” she says as she studies me over the rim and shakes her head slowly. “Have you called David back yet?”
“Nope.” I take a sip of my wine, letting it buy me a second. It’s a good red—warm and smooth and slightly dangerous, like most things I enjoy too much.
Vivian exhales through her nose. “Juliette.”
“What?” I shrug, all innocence. “You asked.”
She sets her glass down carefully, like she’s bracing herself. “What do you think he wants?”
I glance past her, out at the river, where the lights blur together into something soft and forgiving. “I’m pretty sure that the only reason he’s calling is because Theo’s birthday is coming up. To see if he can…I don’t know. Do something. Show up. Pretend.”
Vivian tilts her head. “It’s been what—six months?”
“Six and some change,” I say. “But who’s counting?”
She presses her lips together, unimpressed. “That’s a long time to disappear and then suddenly remember you helped create a child.”
I lift a hand before she can spiral. “I know. I know. And as much as I want to be upset about it—believe me, I really do—if he wants to show up and be in his son’s life, especially for his birthday…” I trail off, lifting both hands in surrender. “What am I supposed to do? Slam the door in his face?”
“Yes,” Vivian says immediately. “That’s exactly what you’re supposed to do.”
I smile faintly. “Tempting. Very tempting.”
But then the smile fades, just a little. Enough that she notices.
“Theo’s still too young,” I say quietly. “He doesn’t need to know that his dad is…disappointing at best. He doesn’t need the details, and he definitely does not need the history. He just needs to know that he has a father who—” I wince. “Okay, who might not always show up. But who, apparently, shows up when it counts. Or at least when birthdays are involved.”
Vivian watches me for a long beat, her expression softening in that way that means she sees right through me.
“You’re shielding him,” she says.
“Someone has to,” I reply. “He doesn’t need my baggage. He needs cake. And balloons. Right?”
“Doesn’t feel like a question,” she responds.
“You are correct,” I confirm.
“What is a question,” Vivan continues, “is what do I get him?”
“You’re getting him a cake, so you’ve done your part,” I laugh. “I still need to make sure I get him something to open on the morning of his birthday.”
“Like what?”
“He’s off the gaming wagon, thanks to hockey, and now he ‘definitely for sure’ wants a Rubik’s Cube.”
“Ooof.” Vivian presses a hand to her chest. “Proceed with caution. My nephew has one. My sister once found him completely naked in front of his bedroom window, trying to get one solid color on a side. Kid forgot he had school. And neighbors.”
I blink at her. “That feels like important fine print.”
“I’m just saying. Remind him he has curtains.”
“I suddenly feel underprepared for motherhood.”
A server appears at our table like a magician, setting down a pristine caprese salad between us. Thick slices of tomato, fresh mozzarella, basil leaves glossy with olive oil. It smells like summer and indulgence and the promise that we’re not ordering pastayet.
Vivian picks up her fork. “You’re a good mom.”
I stab a piece of mozzarella. “I’m a tired mom.”
