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I can’t say no without being the villain, but this isn’t like what Saint pulled with Meg. No calculated manipulation. Just a kind offer of support. Right? Except I’m not sure what it means, or if Saint is really alright with this. Why does everything always have to be so complicated?
“Are you sure? We’re out of your way,” I hedge.
“I’m sure. I can give you a ride into town too, if you need it.”
Yeah, I need it. Except I have to be at the diner by five for the opening shift. Normally, with early shifts, I run home to get the kids out the door for school on what’s ostensibly my lunch break. When they were younger, I brought them with me. That way I could feed them breakfast at work before sending them off for the day. Meg is fairly self-sufficient these days and Owen mostly just needs a bit of prompting to remember his lunch and get out the door. It’s not like I’m gone for even as long as Barb when she storms out mid-rush for a smoke break.
“What?” Saint asks, glancing at me when I don’t respond fast enough.
“Pop’s shift starts at the butt crack of dawn,” Owen pipes in helpfully.
Great. Butt cracks are just what I want to be thinking of right now, when Saint is being so damn helpful I could swoon. Or run for cover because I am not going to fall for this illusion that I can have it all: my career goals within reach, my kids thriving, and a partner—friend—who picks up the slack for me when I need him? Too good to be true.
“Ah, you don’t want to get me out of bed? That’s sweet, but the roads are slippery and it’s supposed to snow so visibility might be poor. Let me give you a ride, Angel?”
I sigh, resigned. “Sure. Far be it from me to refuse a ride from you.”
Saint shoots me a look that’s equal parts filthy promises of things to come the next time he has me alone, and stern admonishment to behave myself for now. I’m all aflutter from the combination of heat and longing and out of my depth because I don’t know how to flirt in front of my kid. This is uncharted territory and Iwill notlet that make me sad or guilty.
We discuss logistics for Saint to give me a ride to work and drop off Owen in the morning. I remember to text my boss that I’m available to pick up another shift for tomorrow evening. Since there’s a ton of time-off requests logged around the holidays, I’m sure there’s someone who would be thrilled to trade with me.
We pull up outside the ramshackle apartment the kids and I have been calling home for years. As part of the divorce settlement, we sold the modest house Trevor and I shared. My share of the sale has helped us to stay afloat, but that little nest egg is all but gone now.
Looking at the saggy front steps and weathered siding through Saint’s eyes is uncomfortable. I don’t want him to judge me.
“Home, sweet apartment.” I force a smile. “You ready, Owen?”
“Yeah.” He unbuckles. “Thanks for the ride, Uncle Saint. See you tomorrow!”
“See you, Owen.” Saint replies. He glances over to check that Owen is turned away, going to the rear of the vehicle to collect his bag.
Saint leans over to capture my lips in a gentle kiss. His tongue flicks into my mouth, giving me the barest hint of gingerbread and sweetness. He tried the fudge? Saint accepted my gift. For some reason, that has my insides all fluttery.
Does that hint of spice mean he wants to accept that he’s important to me? Can that be enough for me? I’m probably reading too much into things. It’s just—I don’t want our routines to change, but I care about him.
“Pop! The trunk won’t open.” Owen’s call has me pulling away from Saint. He chuckles and hits the button to open the rear.
“He’s impatient like his pop,” Saint teases me.
“Hardy har,” I shove at Saint’s shoulder, steal one more peck on his cheek, and get out to let Owen inside. Saint’s not wrong, my kid is impatient. I lean in through the open door, drawing out our goodbye as long as I dare. “See you tomorrow. Thanks for the ride, Saint.”
“You’re welcome. And thanks for the lovely evening and delicious fudge, Angel.”
His car idles in front of the building until Owen and I are inside. A lifetime ago, my dad used to wait like that, to be sure I made it where I was going safely. It’s been so long since anyone cared about me that much. It’s terrifying to think I might be getting used to that kind of care again.
“Hey, Pop?” Owen asks as we’re approaching our door at the end of the dingy hallway.
“Yeah, Owen?” I hold my breath, braced for anything he might say.
“Is Saint the reason you’re always so happy on Thursdays?” he asks with all the guileless innocence a ten-year-old can muster.
I freeze, unsure of how to answer. It’s complicated and I don’t want him to say anything tomorrow that will give Saint the wrong idea. But I don’t lie to my kids.
“Yeah, buddy. He’s a really good friend.”
“Your best friend?” Owen presses.
“Yeah.”
