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I nod and insist that I’m fine. It burns, but it wasn’t that big of a deal.
Still, Truman takes my hand in his and eyes my red skin carefully.
“Run cold water on it,” he tells me. “I’ll do this.”
Like I’m a little kid, he flips on the faucet and then takes the pot from me to finish draining the noodles.
“Does he still eat it without sauce?”
I laugh softly and nod when Truman looks at me. Ryle loves breaded chicken strips covered in melted mozzarella, served with plain spaghetti noodles.
“I have a confession to make,” Truman says quietly.
“What?” I watch him suspiciously as he carries the pot of noodles back to the stove. What could he possibly have to confess to me? Nothing he does is any of my business now, nothing other than stuff about Ryle. I trust him, though. Even with how rough things were when I first got pregnant, I trust Truman with our son.
“We had ice cream.”
Ice cream.
I snort when Truman looks at me. Now he looks like a kid, like Ryle, the way his chin is tucked and he’s looking at me through his thick lashes, like he knows he’s in trouble.
“Mom!” Ryle trots back into the kitchen. “Grandma hit a homerun!”
I turn the water off and dab at the burn spot with a dish towel. Sounds like a fun ball game. I swallow the little bitter taste in my mouth. I should have stayed. Then again, if I had, they wouldn’t have played, or I wouldn’t have played, and the afternoon wouldn’t have been as fun for Ryle.
“Grandma played?” I ask Ryle and then look at Truman for confirmation.
“Yeah!” Ryle drags his chair out from under the table and climbs into it. I catch myself before directing him to get the silverware out. He can’t reach the plates and cups, so his job is silverware and napkins. But with Truman here, with Ryle so excited about his afternoon with Truman, I decide maybe rules and jobs don’t matter.
Especially if Ryle’s already had ice cream.
Truman steps around me, leaning in to look over my shoulder at my hand.
“It’s fine,” I mumble and drop my hands to my sides. It’s a little sore, but I don’t want to make a big deal over nothing. I twist around and watch as Truman sets the table. For two. Ryle watches him place the silverware just so and then looks at Truman with a frown.
Now my heart hurts much worse than my hand.
Truman never stays for dinner when he brings Ryle home. He usually walks him to the door, says hi to me, goodbye to Ryle, and then heads back to his car.
Tonight, something about the two place settings at the table and the three of us in the room together feels wrong. And what makes it worse is that Ryle notices.
“Daddy, eat with us,” he directs his comment to Truman, but he looks at me when he says it. Ryle’s never asked why Truman and I don’t live together, why we’re not a family like Ethan’s mom and dad or other kids he’s around. But surely, he wonders. He’s six; he went to kindergarten. He’s been exposed to all sorts of family dynamics now, and while I’m sure he’s not the only kid in his class whose parents aren’t together, he has to wonder why his family isn’t.
Truman cuts his eyes to me silently. Ryle’s still looking at me, so Truman shakes his head and puts his hands up to me, palms out. Is he just being the good guy? Trying to slip out so I’m not uncomfortable with him being here? Or does he have other plans?
I know Truman’s dated. A lot. I know he’s been seriously involved a time or two since we broke up. What I don’t know is why neither of those relationships lasted. It’s not my business, but I’ll admit I do wonder about it now and then.
“Can Daddy eat with us, Mom?” Ryle breaks the awkward silence.
“Of course,” I say just as Truman says, “Daddy’s gotta go, Ryle.”
Ryle slumps in his chair and picks up his fork. He stares at it silently, the light in his eyes dimmed now. Truman and I stare at each other for a moment, and then I remember Truman’s a big shot with big money, and he probably has a hot date with a smokin’ hot blonde. Or a fiery redhead.
Or anyone who’s not me.
I turn away to get the chicken from the oven.
“Up to you, Truman.” I hope I sound nonchalant. I throw in a shrug as I put the cookie sheet with the chicken on the stovetop. “There’s plenty here if you want to stay.”
