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“It’s time to get up, bud.”
“Five more minutes,” he grumbles, pressing his face into the pillow.
“You said that twenty minutes ago,” I laugh. “Come on. I made breakfast. Waffles, your favorite. The bus will be here soon.”
“Not hungry.”
“How late did you stay up?” I ask, nudging him. He huffs out a breath and barely scoots over enough for me to lie down beside him.
He’s big for fifteen, already six feet and pushing it. Between his father and me, he’s going to be huge. It’s one thing he can thank him for, I suppose.
“Ian.” I jab my finger into his ribs, making him growl before turning his head away and slamming it back down on the pillow.
Yep.
He definitely got my temper.
“I don’t know,” he groans. “Please, Mom. Please. I’m begging you. Just let me sleep.”
“You need to eat something,” I say, and he groans again. “Fine. Five minutes, then I’m getting the ice.”
He probably wants me to get up and leave him alone, but I don’t. We don’t see each other much right now, not with me working at the café during the day and the bar at night, and him working at the supermarket on the weekends. We’re just too busy. Our mornings are our only time together, so I cherish them.
Sometimes I crawl into bed with him when I get home from the bar, just like I did when he was a kid so I can be close to him for a while. Now that he’s older he doesn’t love waking up with me beside him. Which I understand. It doesn’t mean I’ll stop doing it, though.
He is my entire world. He owns my heart and soul, so if I want to sleep next to him for a few hours, I’ll do it. He’ll understand if he ever has a kid one day.
Or he won’t and he’ll still think I’m a fucking weirdo.
Ian shifts his head back toward me, his thick dark brows bunched tightly together. I lightly trace my fingertips over his lips and smile to myself when he makes the face he did as a baby. He scrunches his face tightly together, pressing his lips out before relaxing with a soft sigh.
I could do this all day, just stare at him. He’s fucking amazing. He doesn’t do stupid shit like I did at his age. We hardly fight. He’s respectful and responsible and turning into a good man. He’s everything a mother could ask for and more.
“Okay, bud. Time to get up.” I hate waking him up, but it’s getting late. “I’ll pack your breakfast to-go. You think Enzo wants some, too?” I slide out of bed and press a kiss to his forehead.
“Probably,” he groans as he rolls onto his back. Cracking one eye open, he glares at me. “Why can’t I just do online classes?”
“You need to socialize,” I sigh. Not that he actually socializes while he’s at school. He hangs out with Enzo, but that’s it.
“I hate socializing.” He throws his arm over his eyes as he huffs out a breath. “I really hate school, Mom.”
“I know,” I breathe, my stomach twisting with guilt.
I was always outgoing when I was his age. I had a lot of friends—until I got pregnant—and always wanted to go out and do things. But he’s content reading a book, or playing his video games, or watching TV. He has no interest in hanging out with anyone other than his online friends and, again, Enzo.
Which is fine, but I want him to touch some grass every once in a while too.
“The school year is almost over,” I say. “We can figure something out this summer. Maybe we can find a new school or something.” He pulls his arm away to stare up at me.
“Really?” I chew my lip and shrug.
“Sure.” I back toward the door. “You won’t miss Enzo?” He groans as he pushes himself up and sits on the edge of his bed.
“Yeah, about that,” he says as he rubs his hands over his face. “He’s having a hard time with his dad again.” I rest my forehead against the doorframe. “Can he stay here for a while again?”
“You know he can,” I say. “I’ll borrow one of the guy’s cars and we’ll go pick his stuff up this afternoon.” He shakes his head as I speak and pushes to his feet, stretching his arms above his head and resting his hands flat against the ceiling.
“Nah,” he yawns. “I’ll tell him to take his shit to school.”
