Page 12 of The Irresistible Distraction

“Do you want to tell me what’s bothering you?”

I close my eyes. This is the problem with having friends who know you too well. Sebastian has left the table to wash his hands, but I keep my voice low as I give Vera the abbreviated version of Adeline’s visit and Jesse’s job offer. “As far as I can tell, he hasn’t announced his engagement yet.”

In truth, I don’t know for sure that Jesse has proposed. I only know Sebastian found a large solitaire engagement ring during his weekend visit a month ago and that Jesse’s girlfriend casually-not-casually told my son that the two of them should schedule some quality time together.

Sebastian nodded, but then Jesse’s girlfriend hasn’t followed up. He hasn’t wanted to ask Jesse what all of this might mean.

And I certainly haven’t wanted to ask Jesse.

Meaning it has just sat there, an unanswered question my son and I are both likely dedicating too much headspace to.

“If he moves back to Lake Arrowhead, he could argue for fifty-fifty custody. He earns more, has the more respected job, and also, Arthur regularly golfs with Judge Benson, the man most likely to oversee any hearing.”

It’s my biggest fear, that I’ll lose what’s become functionally full custody if Jesse comes back. That this woman I’ve never met will disrupt my life in unintended and unavoidable ways.

Vera’s voice is kind as she lays a hand on my shoulder. “Think through what you want before you rearrange your life for their needs. Whatever I can do to support you, I will.”

The problem, of course, is I don’t know what I want. Ten years ago, the choice had been taken out of my hands: the pregnancy, the marriage, and even the divorce weren’t things I initiated so much as decisions I’d acquiesced to. Since then, I’ve built a life that’s imperfect but . . . mine. And there’s no telling how, exactly, that’s going to change if Jesse comes back.

Though he hides it in the closet whenever friends are over, Seba consistently sleeps with his Wall-E stuffie and still likes to be tucked in—something I know he’ll grow out of and which I try not to make too big of a deal over. He’s fully ensconced before he asks me.

“Is it true?”

“Is what true, honey?”

“Dad messaged me today, said he’s thinking about moving back.”

Well, shit.

Wish Jesse had texted me before telling our ten-year-old.

“It is likely true. Your nana stopped by the diner earlier and mentioned your father had gotten a job offer.”

In a soft, low voice, my son asks, “Are you mad?”

“Why would I be mad?”

“That’s what you always ask when you’re mad.” Sebastian scoots farther down, until his head barely remains above the blankets.

Drat the kid and his ability to notice . . . things.

I start counting in my head, so that my tone will be well modulated, only to be interrupted.

“And you only count in your head when you’re so angry you can’t pretend to be patient.”

“You’re an observant kid,” I tell him, wishing I had my cuddly son back, the one I’m certain was here a few months ago. Definitely a year ago, before I let him skip grades and he started speaking like a perpetually irritated teenager.

“You reminded me, a couple of hours ago, that we’re supposed to practice answering the question.”

“True.” A small smile escapes me, and I kiss his forehead, which he allows. “It’s complicated. But it might mean you’d get to spend more time with him, and that would be nice, right?”

Sebastian doesn’t respond, and this time I don’t push. Instead, I smooth his blankets, something that calmed him when he was three and probably does no good now.

“Magna.” Because it’s what we say instead of I love you. Because magna sounds like magma, which is related to lava, which sounds like love.

“Carta,” he answers.

When I’m certain Sebastian is asleep, I double-check the party platter orders, pack the additional popcorn bags and tins I’m hoping we sell tomorrow, and wash my face.