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“Jacob doesn’t see it that way. All this drama, this tension between us, is new. I feel like he’s slipping away from me.”
“Heisslipping away from you, Hollie.”
My eyes pop. Well, that’s not comforting. John’s vulnerability a minute ago lulled me into a sense of having made peace with the man, but he remains as recklessly blunt as ever.
“I’m sorry,” he tacks on, in the most un-sorry tone ever. “But it’s the truth. He’s knocking on the door of eighteen, mom, and—”
“Donotcall me mom.” It’s nails on a chalkboard when he does.
“Okay,Hollie.” He drums his cup. “Jacob’s already a young man, and in less than a year, he’ll be a legal adult. Pulling away is just how it goes.”
“So, what? I’m supposed to stop parenting? Let him run free? He’s still a teenager, still my responsibility.” I tap my chest for emphasis.
“That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying your parenting has to change with the times.”
“So I shouldn’t be concerned where he spends his nights?” I never would have imagined the mess he’s in now, innocently, I think—and I’m also smart enough to know I don’t want to become a grandmother at thirty-three. And that’s only one of my fears.
“Absolutely you should be concerned. And if he’s rebelling, you should take his phone away, and while you’re at it, take back those blasted car keys.” Chest puffed, he folds his arms. “For crying out loud, Hollie, you’re not the one who should be walking home at night!”
I have the sudden urge to pluck an ice cube from my glass and flick it in John’s face…and yet, there’s something in his reprimand, something remarkably sincere, that freezes my snippy, self-defense tirade.
He rests on his forearms. “Look, I may be treading dangerous waters here, but can’t his father step up? You may not like to hear this, but a man’s got a heck of a better shot at getting his attention than you do.”
So many things gang up against my rational, calm, deliberative self. Forget ice cubes. I want to fling every sarcastic insult and flippant retort I can manage. Who does this man think he is? Concern? More likely, he’s probing for information. People are amazingly and inappropriately nosy when it comes to a child’s parentage. They give you a pass early on, and then, the longer they know you, the more they think they have a right to pry into areas that are flat-out none of their business.
“No,agent,” I begin, since he likes nicknames and titles so much. “His father can’tstep up.”
Seething, I toss my napkin onto the table right as the waitress arrives with our food.
John
No matter what I do, I step in it with this woman.
Eh. She’s far from the only one. My people skills are office legend.
What gets me in this moment, however, is the tone of her voice, the ache in her eyes. A bucketful of questions—all of them off limits—tip my tongue. My curiosity has raged ever since meeting Jacob in their tiny garage apartment. I know Hollie works hard. Shouldn’t there be some alimony or child support to upgrade their lifestyle a bit? A father to share the load?
See? Lots of questions, none of which are any of my business.
Apologies aren’t good strategy at work. Here, I reach across the table and touch Hollie’s fingers. “I’m sorry.”
I don’t say for what. I’m not sureIeven knowwhat I did wrong. Women are like that. They let you know when you’ve stepped in it—it’s up to you to guess how.
One of the reasons I’ve settled happily into singleness since the debacle with Deann.
Yes, I’m happy as a clam, just me in my recliner with sole ownership of the remote.
Hollie’s fingers still beneath my hand.
Oh, right. Touching is a no-no.
“Sorry,” I repeat, sliding my palm back to my side of the table, acquiring a sticky swipe of syrup along the way. Two apologies in one night? What is this madness?
Slathering ketchup over my hashbrowns, I begin to eat. Women are tough for me. I can handle the female agents fine, but in the real world, I flounder. Knowing how to recover a situation that’s gone south is not my specialty.
The rest of the meal passes minus conversation, meaningless or otherwise. When Hollie finally lays her fork aside, her plate still better than half full, I prohibit myself from any more sighing. “You ready?”
Our hands bump in a simultaneous reach for the check. “I’ll pay for mine,” she tells me.
