I wish Boss Man were an open book, but he isn’t. And for someone as curious as I am, that’s a very hard pill to swallow.
* * *
“What doyou think of this one?” I ask Ethan, holding up the army green dress. It’s a simple cotton button shirt dress, nothing too sexy. I certainly don’t want to give Samuel the wrong idea. We’re just friends.
“Pretty,” Ethan says. When I ask him about the blue one, he says “Pretty” again. And when I show him the brown one, he shakes his head. Yes, I’m taking fashion advice from a two-year old.
“Mommy’s going to dinner tonight,” I tell him. “And tomorrow night too. Mommy is very popular all of a sudden.”
He grabs one of my shoes and knocks the chunky heel on the floor. This is one of his favorite games.
“But you’re still my number one man,” I tell him. “Samuel is just a friend, and Weston is Mommy’s boss,” I explain, despite the fact that he can’t possibly comprehend a single word I’m saying. “But he also makes Mommy feel good… makes her heart beat really fast, like it used to with Daddy.”
Another pang of guilt hits me. I hate it.
I stare at the red dress hanging on my door. It’s casual but sexy, and I have the perfect cardigan to wear with it. That’s my Saturday dress.
“Auntie Abby is coming over to look after you tonight,” I tell him. “And tomorrow, auntie Claudia is coming over. Don’t you have the best aunties?”
He laughs at my words. He always laughs. He has such a happy, sweet disposition, just like his father did. I’m a very lucky mom that way.
Technically, Claudia and Abigail are not his aunts, but I’m sure he will always think of them that way. They’ll hopefully be there to watch him grow up and become the man he is destined to be.
* * *
The small restaurant is busy,a popular Mexican food joint. It’s kitschy. Paraphernalia from Mexico line the walls, and the tablecloths are red and green, but apparently the food can’t be beat. I’ve ordered the fish tacos and can’t wait to dig in.
Samuel is looking nice tonight in dark pants and a black pullover. He may or may not have made an effort. I can’t really tell. I know I certainly haven’t.
“It’s so nice to get together like this,” he says. “Without Charmaine and Bernadette and all them sad saps.”
I laugh. “Well,it isa grief group,” I point out. “They’re allowed to be sad.”
“You know what I mean… it gets depressing,” he goes on. “Yeah… your husband died. He was eighty! Get over it!”
I’m a little taken aback by his attitude. “Why do you go then?” I ask, playing the devil’s advocate.
He downs a sip of his frozen Margarita. “Because of you… mostly,” he confesses. “I like hanging out with you.”
I’m not too keen on his answer. I’ve already told him this was just friendship, and I’m hoping he understood. “Oh, I see. You’re trying to slowly extract us from the group by inviting me to dinner,” I joke. “I’m on to you, buster.”
He laughs. “Something like that.”
We chit chat for a while, and the fish tacos are amazing. I’m having fun until his questions become slightly inappropriate. He asks me if I’d had sex since Donovan, and I tell him the truth. No. I don’t mention the spankings or my boss.
He also asks me about Donovan’s passing, and I tell him he died in a car wreck. I don’t elaborate. Only my most closest friends and family know the exact circumstances of Donovan’s death. It’s not something I talk often about. And if I were about to confess all my sins, it certainly wouldn’t be to him.
He confesses that he often feels guilty about his daughter’s suicide. He regrets not being there for her, being too harsh with her, too impatient. I feel for him. I can’t imagine what he must be going through, and I want to be a good friend. I tell him not to blame himself. She was clinically depressed and wasn’t taking her medication. He and his wife did what they could at the time. They got her the help she needed, but unfortunately, it wasn’t enough.
The evening ends well as we fall back into an easy camaraderie. Turns out, he’s a very funny guy. He insists on walking me to my car, and he lingers a little too long before giving me a goodnight hug. His embrace is a little more familiar than I would like, but I let it go, because we’ve shared a lot, and it’s completely normal for us to be close.
I hop into my car. “See you next week.”
“I’ll be waiting with bated breath,” he says, and I’m not sure if he’s joking, or if he’s serious.
