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“Pushy is more like it. I’m worried about Renata’s feelings about her M-O-M.”
“I know how to spellmom.” Sylvie Rhys pipes up from a few paces ahead.
We go bug-eyed at one another, unable to tell from the inflection in the six-year-old’s voice if she means she can spell mom or if she’s calling Cece mom already. Beth, Sylvie’s mother, died when she was a baby.
“See what I mean?” Cece whispers. “And Kimber having twins has given her baby fever.”
“Careful, I’ve heard that’s catchy.”
Cece wrinkles her nose.
“Awe, come on, Cece. You and Dusty would make some gorgeous chubbykins.”
I spend far more time with them than I do with Trig and Kimber, therefore I’m going to need Cece to have a baby I can hold to get my fix once Emory starts school. The one thing I won’t ever be late for is my time of the month.
“Someday, but not now.” Guilt and confusion lace Cece’s voice.
She’s fallen more and more for Dusty’s daughter. They’ve established a great bond, and yet Cece wants what’s best for Sylvie without sacrificing herself. I gave up a lot for Bhodi. It was tough, and he’s my flesh and blood.
My son is lucky someone like Cary is still willing to stand in and model some respectability for him. It takes a real man to keep showing up on the weekends, despite sleeping with a kid’s mom the way we did.I’m lucky.
I risked so much trying to let Cary down easy a few weekends ago. I’m not sure if he stays on the periphery of my mind because he’s proven he’s handled the situation better than I expected or the sex was amazing. BOB hasn’t had the magic touch as of late. Maybe I need to replace the batteries or splurge on a new one?
What’s more likely to solve the issue is leaving for my shift earlier so there are fewer awkward conversations when Cary brings Bhodi home. How many times can I respond to a polite, “How are you?” without saying, “Desperate to have your cock inside of me.” The answer isa lotwhen your child is within earshot.
Inside the restaurant, the servers are pushing two tables together so there is enough space for all of us. Kimber is putting her toddler, Owen, into a highchair. His adult sister, Aidy, guides his feet through the leg slots and buckles him in. She rounds the table, noticing Cece and I have come in, and pats the seat next to her, making room for her boyfriend, Morgan’s, sister.
On Aidy’s opposite side is Hailey, who lives at the mill and whom I haven’t seen in ages. I stop to hug her and then Sloan, who has the head of the table. After scooting around everyone’s brimming sacks of fresh produce and country goodness, the remaining spot left for me to sit in faces Sloan with Bhodi to my left.
Our uniqueness has struck me before. Aidy and Hailey are in college, younger than Celine. Kimber is closing in on forty. In the grand scheme, Sloan and I aren’t that far behind. We’re all bound by the mill, or rather they are, and I am included in the friendship shenanigans in an odd sense of guilt by association. I’m also the only one of us who is currently unattached. I love how excited everyone is for Kimber and that they’re all getting to the point no one minds children around or I’d find myself the odd woman out.
The kids color after we place our orders and pick at their food when the server returns, eating mostly the fries and bowls of fruit, minus the cantaloupe.
My girlfriends and I idly chit-chat and gossip about what we’ve been up to. I’m thankful when it’s mentioned how gorgeous the TV mount Dusty made is that Cece leaves Cary’s name out.
For Bhodi’s sake, not mine.
Although Cece glances between my son and me, and her lip twitches as she remarks, “I could live off of what Laurel grills… and these.” She pulls a hot-from-the-oven buttermilk biscuit from the extra basket we requested.
I reach in for seconds, tearing mine apart. The steamy bread melts in my mouth when it hits my tongue and I groan. Who needs a man when you’ve got a cloud of buttery carbohydrate heaven?
Bhodi leans into me with puppy dog eyes. I give him a smarmy face, pull off another small bite, and hand him the rest of the biscuit.
He’s got it half shoved in his mouth when I barter a typical mom-exchange. “Trade me for your melon?”
My son plops the remains of his fruit cup on my plate, grinning. I’d do anything for him to stay as happy as he’s been recently. He’s even doing better in school.
After we settle the bill, everyone troupes back through to vendors to get what we couldn’t carry before brunch. Kimber has an hour to burn before Owen’s nap and suggests heading to the park for the kids. Bhodi and Sylvie Rhys glom onto the idea. We wind up splitting off from Sloan, Hailey, and Aidy for the short drive up the road.
I leave my windows cracked so my Honda doesn’t pressure cook the quality produce and park close to the entrance. Walking toward the gates, I can’t help notice how many license plate holders advertise Cass-Stanton’s auto mall. I decide I’m hit with so many subliminal messages and it’s contributing to the madness I feel between Cary’s visits. I shouldn’t be looking forward to seeing him again, but something in my chest swells when regarding all these vehicles as a measure of his success. I’m proud of him in a way, even if I have no right to be. Even if I’m not the woman on his arm when he’s my age and has come into his own.
“I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you smile like that, Holly. What are you thinking?” Kimber asks.
She pats Owen on the bottom, encouraging the toddler to join Bhodi and Sylvie Rhys on the slide.
“Who—wha?” I guess I’m not as clever covering my tracks with my besties as I am with my kid. “It’s nothing.”
“I have a feeling it’s the kind of thing that explains why you were quick back at the restaurant to change the subject when I mentioned we’d had dinner with you and Laurel… And Cary Cass.” Cece nods to the line of cars visible beyond the tall metal fencing of the historic playground.
