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After dropping Brady off at the studio, I drive to Fifth Avenue and score a parking spot out in front of Ghirardelli’s. The neon lighting above the sign flashes. I notice Andrew’s wide eyes as he takes in the glowing building. “This is an ice cream shop?”
I smile and open my door. “Yep. Come on, kiddo.”
I take his hand and hold it as we walk inside. His mouth opens, his eyes traveling from the floor-to-ceiling wall of chocolate on the right to the enormous ice cream bar on the left. He beams up at me. “My mom won’t let me have chocolate or ice cream.”
My brain locks on that. Am I not supposed to let him have sweets? I know it’s not good for him. That’s the point of a special treat. I shake it off. It’s not like it’s all he eats three times a day. But then I worry maybe he has an allergy. Should I call Brady? I wonder if Andrew knows.
I look down at him. “Are you allergic?”
A sad frown crosses his lips as he looks at his feet. “No, Mom’s friends let me have it when they babysit, but Mom won’t ever buy it for me.”
I smile and laugh. “Because it rots your teeth?”
“No, she said it’s because she can’t afford it…but she buys mommy juice for herself.”
My smile washes away. I press my lips together and inhale a sharp breath. Mommy juice? I’m not sure what pisses me off more, the fact that she laid a guilt trip about finances on a four-year-old or calling alcohol “mommy juice.” I get joking like that with a friend, but Andrew’s just a kid. What if he tried to drink it? I don’t know why I’m surprised. I read her letter. I already know she hasn’t been a good mother.
I inhale another calming breath. I won’t say anything bad about his mother in front of him. “Well, it just so happens that I don’t like juice, so looks like we’re having ice cream and chocolate.”
His eyes are as big as plates when he smiles. “Goodie.”
We sit at a small table in the corner and order an earthquake. There’s no way we’ll finish the eight-scoop monstrosity, but I couldn’t say no to Andrew’s smiling green eyes when he saw it on the menu.
As we wait for our order, I watch Andrew fidget, his face twisting until I see a familiar wrinkle between his eyebrows. Observing his head full of dark hair, olive skin, and breathtaking green eyes, I wonder if Annabelle was even present for his conception. There’s not a trace of her in this kid’s looks. His little mouth turns down is a mournful frown.
“What’s the matter?”
His eyes flick up to mine. “She’s not coming back this time, is she?”
The fact that he said “this time” infuriates me. What do I say to him? I don’t want to lie to him. I can’t very well tell him she’s written him off and probably has since birth. I feel nothing but hatred for Annabelle, but he doesn’t need to know that.
“I don’t know, honey,” I admit sadly. “I wish I did.”
“She doesn’t love me.” It’s not a question. He’s sharing his thoughts with me.
I reach across the table and take his hands. “Don’t ever think that, sweetheart.” I suck in a thick breath, nearly choking on it to hold back tears. How do I say this without destroying him? “I think she loves you enough to understand that it’s best for you to be with your daddy right now.” A small smile starts to pull at the corners of his mouth. “I know how much she loves you. No one will ever love you like your mom.”
“Then why’d she leave me?”
His fragile innocence squeezes my heart. I refuse to tell him it’s because she’s messed up and her head isn’t on straight. I won’t tarnish his opinion of her.
“I’m not sure, but I know that no matter where she is, she thinks about you all the time.”
He smiles big, but then it fades away, replaces with a sad frown. “Are you going to leave again?”
I stifle a sob as my heart crumbles. I never stopped to consider how my decision to leave would affect him. I force a smile. “No. I promise you. I’m not going anywhere.”
His smile returns. “Good.”
This poor kid is just short of five years old, and he’s already been stained by his parents’ – myself included – poor choices. I vow silently to myself to provide him with so many good memories, the bad ones will wash clean from his mind.
“My dad was really sad when you were gone.”
I sigh and smile at him. “I was sad, too, kiddo, but I promise that your dad and I will always be here for you.”
“Are you two going to get married?”
Well, that one hurts. What do I say? I know I can’t tell a four-year-old that his dad and I were already married and we screwed it all to hell. I shrug. “I don’t know…maybe.”
