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“I had to fight, and fight hard, to get that. It’s practically all the time he’s not committed to school,” I explained. “I also get weekends here and there. As per my visitation agreement, I have the option to fly in, rent a hotel suite, and spend time with him in his hometown a few times a year, provided I give ample notice.”
“Do you do that?”
“I do.”
“Does she co-operate?”
Despite not wanting to know anything about her, she cared about how she affected me because Ruby had a big heart.
“She does not, but her husband is a good guy, and he ensures that George gets his time with me.”
“I remember you said she remarried.” Her hand slackened further. She felt threatened by my ex-wife. My ex-wife felt threatened by her. What a fucking mess I’d created.
“She married a really good guy. Hopefully, she doesn’t fuck it up, because he loves Georgie and Georgie loves him. I’d hate for Georgie to lose his other dad.”
I was pinning my hopes on George being just as okay with having a stepmom, too. Laidback and easygoing, most things rolled off George’s back. He liked fun and adventure like both of his dads. Usually, he took change in stride.
“You’re okay with George calling him ‘dad’?”
“He is his dad. He’s been in his life since George was a baby. He’s given him two younger sisters. He takes him to all his lessons, talks to him about girls, looks over his homework, makes him take out the trash. In some ways, he’s more his dad than I am.”
“That must be very painful,” she murmured.
I squeezed her hand. “It’s not as bad as it used to be. Georgie’s happy, well-adjusted, and we are close. That’s all that matters.”
“You talk to him a lot in between visits?”
“Yes. We text every day, he calls me whenever he wants to, and we FaceTime at least once a week. You’ll meet him in a few weeks.”
Her hand jerked in mine. Fuck, had I realized all those years ago that holding her hand gave me a direct barometer to her thoughts, I might not have fucked up so colossally.
She started to protest, but I cut her off. “He’s a good kid, Ruby-mine. You’ll like him. I promise.” I waited a beat and when she didn’t respond I continued. “I know how you feel. I’m not entirely looking forward to meeting Jace, either.”
Her hand spasmed again, and I quelled a smile. “But Jace is yours, and you are mine, so he’s automatically important to me. I’ll meet him, I’ll get over the fact that another man planted him inside you, and I’ll love him for who he is.”
“It hurts,” she whispered.
“I know that, too,” I murmured back.
I squeezed her hand and released it to navigate the narrow side streets of the Danforth in Greek Town. When I pulled into a narrow space and put the car in park, she perked up.
“Do you remember that Bouzouki place we went to? Do you think it’s still here?” She asked, her eyes alight. The sheen of tears lingered, but she plowed through.
I leaned over and quickly kissed her cheek. “C’mon. Let’s go find out.”
We walked, her hand tucked into the crook of my arm. She absentmindedly stroked my bicep, intermittently squeezing the muscle as she looked around. Always so tactile.
I had a flash of memory of going with her to a fabric store when she went through her sewing phase. Not a single swath of material escaped her questing fingers. That phase only lasted a couple of months. She didn’t have the patience for measuring, cutting, and the painstaking process of piecing it all together.
After that she took up painting. That lasted even less time.
“Remember when you decided you wanted to paint?”
She laughed. “Yes. I was terrible!”
I chuckled. “You were. What was it after that? Knitting?”
She twisted her lips to the side. “Crochet.”
