Page 92 of The Irresistible Distraction

JESSE: And I’d love to take you out for a date.

JESSE: You choose, when and where.

I take a screenshot of the message to show Maggie but then decide not to send it, because I’m not sure what her sleep schedule is so close to her due date. I don’t need Maggie’s opinion to know my answer is.

For once, my best friend and I are aligned: It’s too late.

A month ago, this would have seemed like an answered prayer. A month ago, Jesse was the only man I’d ever even considered loving, the missing piece to my little family.

But I find that, again just once, Adeline and I are (also) in agreement. Jesse and I do not belong together—perhaps we never did. Without Sebastian to hold us together, we would never have married. Jesse would have been my first boyfriend: my ex-sweetheart, as opposed to my ex-husband.

Still, it’s Adeline’s poisonous words that spiral in my head as I try to sleep. I absolutely loathe the idea that Seba’s dreams are a derivative of my goals for him. It’s nonsense, because I’ve always encouraged my son to find his own path. I’ve never dreamt of Seba becoming a doctor or lawyer or a tyrannosaurus astronaut (his career of choice when he was in kindergarten).

All I’ve ever wanted was for Seba to be safe, healthy, and kind.

But though I’d never taken the time to think about it, Jesse’s dreams are manifestly an abbreviated version of his mother’s. Adeline wanted her son to enter medicine, went with him to volunteer at the hospital, spoke of the illustrious career he was sure to have. Adeline insisted her son needed to attend a top-twenty college, drove him down the mountain for college counseling workshops (and afterward, told everyone that UC Berkeley was, in many ways, better than the Ivies).

Maybe if I hadn’t met Brody, I would have been—if not happy, then content with Jesse, even knowing I’d been the backup, his second choice. I could have put a romantic spin on it—the prodigal husband returning.

But now? The idea feels inconceivable.

Jesse, who even though he told me he loved me and swore to cherish and protect me, would never have encouraged me to think about life beyond the diner, would never have encouraged me to develop or pursue independent ambitions.

Instead of sleeping in the guest room usually reserved for Seba, I head to what’s become Brody’s bed, breathing in the scent of him, noting that he must have had Cally order him a new mattress because it is absurdly comfortable. Though I hadn’t planned on it, I let Spock and Kirk sleep at the foot of the bed, since it’s clearly what they’ve grown accustomed to, meaning Brody’s been spoiling them in other ways, too.

The next morning, Adeline is exactly on time, and we spend the ride to our workshop talking about nature photography, and only . . . nature photography. She asks about the camera I’m using, and I return the favor. Our interactions are cordial and, more importantly, without incident.

The second day of the workshop exceeds the first.

Because I actively want to interact with other people, I manage to be paired with Ella, who lost her hearing when she was young after a severe biking accident, and her partner, Deidre, who’s mostly along for the ride. They’re both fluent in ASL, and I spend a lovely day practicing sign language, taking photos with people who are similarly passionate, and for the first time in years, I exchange phone numbers with two people who are of similar age and interests, who don’t have children and have no interest in arranging playdates or matching extracurricular activities.

We talk about the wildlife restoration efforts of various state and local parks and look up volunteer events we might meet up at in the future.

It’s possible nothing comes of it, and yet . . . I feel oddly hopeful.

I return (in my own car, yay) about half an hour before Brody and Seba are scheduled to, which gives me just enough time to shower and heat up one of Cynthia’s meals.

When my boys arrive, they are almost hilariously sunburnt, even Sebastian, who inherited my skin and usually goes straight from less tan to more tan. Both are grinning, over-brimming with stories, but I cut them off.

“Shower first,” I tell them, pushing them each away when they try to envelop me in their dust and grime. Brody gets a gleam in his eyes and casts a sideways glance at Seba, who understands and follows the older man’s lead as they both reach out with their hands, fingers splayed wide, lips puckered as if they’re going to kiss me into submission. I back into a corner of the kitchen, giggling like a little kid, but neither ultimately puts their hands on me; instead, they coordinate kissing me on each cheek, leaving what I’m sure are dirt marks, before high-fiving each other.

My smile is so wide it hurts.

My heart aches, as well, for a completely different reason.

As they wash up, I think of Adeline asking whether Brody is a poor influence. And seeing how carefree Seba looked while leaning in to kiss me? I realize it’s the wrong question to have asked.

Sebastian and I, both a tad anxious, both a little too used to spiraling into analysis paralysis, need Brody’s brand of naughty.

Dinner is a chaotic affair during which my boyfriend and son fight to speak over each other, each insisting they should be the one who gets to tell me about the wildlife they saw, about the pictures they took, the way they burned two bags of pork burnt ends Cynthia made.

At one point, after we’re done eating, Seba offers to clear the dinner plates, suggests he should be the one to wash and put away the dishes; I’m immediately on high alert.

“Why?”

Instead of answering, Seba looks at Brody. “I told you she’d think it was suspicious.”

“Don’t drag me down with you.” Brody holds his hands up, and it’s unclear whether I should laugh or cry here. My two guys, in cahoots—Brody bringing Seba out of his shell, one negotiation at a time. “I advised you to ease into it. You can’t go from being sullen to offering to clean dishes in that peppy tone.”