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“Is his father in the picture?”
Cass wasn’t sure he should ask that question, but on the other hand, hadn’t she just bared her soul to him in her explanation about her tattoos? Sure, she’d played it off with a joke about her rebellious behavior, but Cass had seen the sorrow in her eyes.
Besides, his was genuinely interested. Both for her sake and her son’s.
“No.”
He nodded, ready to leave it alone. It was one thing to ask if the guy was in the picture, something else entirely to pry into reasons why he wasn’t.
“He wasn’t in the picture the day after we hooked up on his living room couch,” she answered. “One of those floral, velour things? Brown with blue flowers and little birds on it.”
Again, she was using sarcasm to keep her feelings out of the way.
“Did he know?”
“That I was pregnant?” she asked and continued when Cass nodded, “Well, yeah. He lived here then. We weren’t dating, but it’s a small town. So, we ran into each other almost anytime I left the house. He saw me pregnant. He never asked. I never told him.”
“And now? Does he live here?”
“No.” She finished her beer and set the bottle on the bar. “No idea where he is, but he’s not here.”
“Does your son know any of that?”
“No.” She flinched. “I know. I need to tell him. He doesn’t ask about his father much. In fact, he asks more questions about my mom.”
“I saw Barry Manilow in concert.”
Marlowe jerked her chin up so quickly to look him in the eye, he worried she might have whiplash.
“Are you kidding?”
“Nope. Took my mom and grandma to see him once.”
“Wow.” Her laugh was already familiar to him, and it warmed him and still managed to make him shiver every time he heard it.
“But I also saw Kiss.”
“Me too.”
“Tell me about Kissing Springs.”
“When you watch TV, do you fly through the channels at the speed of light?”
“Nope.” He flashed a sheepish grin. “Actually, I don’t. I watch a lot of documentaries. And once I get sucked into one, I don’t change the channel.”
“Sucked into a documentary,” she mumbled and shook her head. “What is that? I don’t get it.”
“Do you like to dance?”
“Not much, no.”
“You know you have to teach your son to dance, right? So that when he’s a freshman at his first school dance, even though he’ll be standing with the rest of the boys on one side of the gym, and the girls will be on other side, at least he’ll know how to dance.”
“Your mom taught you to dance?”
“No.” He shook his head. “My friend did.”
“What was her name?” She wagged her eyebrows at him.
