Page 41 of 10 Signs You Need to Grovel

My alarm goes. We lift our pencils and grin at each other.

“Mine’s amazing,” I say. It’s not. I’m useless at drawing. My lines swoosh all over the page in erratic loops.

Max looks at it and snorts. “My head isn’t that wide.”

I hold the page next to his smiling face. “No clue what you mean. It’s a perfect likeness.”

His drawing of me is, of course, phenomenal. It’s abstract and funky, my shorter hair done in overlapping strokes, and I do look kind of constipated. “Pretty sure I win,” I say.

His retaliation: “You’re a poor loser.”

Nailed that one. “At least give me a rematch?”

“That tree.” He points to a larger maple up ahead, its trunk swelled with a gnarly knot. “Think you can handle it?”

“I was born ready,” I say, stealing his and Sadie’s line.

Five drawings later, I’m still useless with a pencil, but Max and I have relaxed into this effortless banter. Joking together. Having a nice time.

He taps his pencil on his sketchbook after, alternating between blinking at his page and stealing peeks at me. “You know my mom, right? From when you were younger?”

Know is the understatement of the century. “I do.”

He quits fidgeting and nails me with a curious stare. “You make her nervous.”

“What makes you say that?”

“She takes way longer getting ready when we come here. She does that when she’s nervous. Happy nervous.”

Well now. Can’t say that’s unwelcome intel. “I bet you have lots of experience making girls happy nervous.”

His eyebrows drop into sharp slashes. “Not really.”

“In time, kid. Like I said, the girls will go nuts for your art.”

He seems to sink more into himself, angling away from me, our easy banter back to stiff. Can’t be comfortable for him discussing his mother like this, and our time is too precious to spend it discussing Sadie.

“So, Max.” I try to catch his eye. “Do you do other art besides drawing?”

He perks up. “I did pottery once last year. Didn’t like it as much, how squishy and messy it was, but the glazing part was cool. I made my mom a container for her pens.”

I glance at Sadie, who’s talking animatedly with Jasmine and Zoey. She probably loved that gift. Gave our son a huge hug and uses it on her desk.

A marble of affection knocks around in my chest, a game of pinball happening with my heart as I watch her and picture their loving home together. An imagined scene that makes me happy for them.

When I turn back to Max, his thick-lashed eyes are narrowed at me. He cocks his head in a way that looks eerily familiar. “You like my mom.”

Jesus. Is it that obvious?

Sadie was right. Kids are way smarter than adults give them credit for.

“She’s wonderful. A real great gal.” My heart trips over itself as I push to my feet and dust nothing off my thighs, because gal. Who in the twenty-first century says gal? “Keep up that awesome sketching and your awesome treasure-hunting skills, kiddo.”

I pivot and strut away before I say things like way to go, daddy-o and you’re a hip cat.

At least I made progress with Max today. Already, I feel a connection with him. The beginnings of a true friendship. I might not even have to wait much longer before I tell him who I am, especially if he has a social worker he likes.

For now, I’ll search for Max’s book, Simon vs. the something, and try to create more common ground with him. And maybe I’ll call Sadie tonight. Find out if Max is doing better at home. See if she thinks I can introduce myself sooner. I might even ask her on an official date, instead of mooning over her from afar, while our son sees right through me.