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“Okay. Brownies would be cool. No nuts, though. Or grapes?”
“We can get both,” I offer.
I drive the kid to the store while we compare favorite holiday treats. Once we get there, I’m tempted to pile up a cart with everything he trails his fingers over in the aisle with all the colorful packages of cookies and juice. I restrain that impulse to getting a few things for his party and my office. As we’re leaving the store, Owen’s stomach grumbles. Angel has mentioned what a bottomless pit the kid has been lately. So I swing through the Tim’s drive-through for a second breakfast for him and coffee for myself.
He devours his breakfast sandwich before we pull back onto the road and I hand him my hash browns.
“Thanks.” Owen takes the food.
“No problem, kiddo. You must be getting ready for a growth spurt or something.”
“I guess. That’s what Pop keeps saying.” Owen eats another few bites, washing them down with hot cider. Like his pop. It’s kind of adorable seeing all the shared mannerisms play out in my rearview mirror. “Hey, Saint?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you being nice to me because you like my pop?”
“Huh?”
“Nothing. Just, you didn’t have to get me breakfast. Pop made sure I had food before they left for work.”
“I know your pop takes good care of you, Owen.”
Owen nods emphatically. “Yes. So,doyou like my pop?”
“Why are you asking?” It would be easy to like Angel’s kids. To get close to their family and twine our lives together, but the hope sparkling in Owen’s eyes makes me nervous. I can’t envision a world where the wide-eyed kid in the backseat relies on me as anything resembling a parental figure. And yet, a closer relationship with Angel would mean scenes like this would become routine. I don’t think I’m equipped for that.
“Because they like you and I don’t want them to be lonely on Christmas. So if you like them too, maybe you could spend it together?”
“We’ll see, kiddo.” I bite my cheek so I don’t react to the kid unsubtly playing matchmaker. I turn onto the street where the elementary school’s fenced-in yard is full of milling students. Almost home free. “But I’m aromantic, as in I don’t experience romantic attraction. You know, like all the hearts and flowers and mushy Valentine’s Day card stuff that grown-ups do. I don’t date. So it’s not like I’m going to be your new step-dad, or anything. Your pop knows that. We’re friends.”
“Yeah, but I saw you kissing Pop last night. So you’re kissing friends.”
“Does that bother you?”
“No. I like when Pop is happy.” Owen considers me, like he’s searching for what Angel sees in me. Damn, the kid knows how to make a guy sweat.
“I like that too.” I flash him my most winsome smile. It’s nothing short of the truth.
Owen cocks his head to the side. He fixes me with a stern look that forces me to bite my tongue, or risk laughing at how much he resembles his pop when Angel gets peeved with me. “Dad says you’re only sleeping with Pop because they owe you money and Pop has daddy issues. But you don’t have kids, so I’m not sure what he meant.”
Fuck. Can I just punt the kid into the drop-off line and leave? No. I need to address that. Somehow. Probably without expletives about his shithead father.
Ugh. If I had any doubts that I’m not cut out to be a boyfriend, let alone a step-parent, here’s all the proof I needed.
“Angel is my very dear friend, Owen. What we do or do not do together is private and between us. But I can assure you that I care about your pop and nothing about our relationship is transactional. And your father probably meant that I’m older than Angel.”
“Oh. I guess so. Weird. Why does he care? You’re all old.” Owen dismisses our respective ages with a wave of his hand. “What’s transactional? Pop is trans. Is it something about that?”
“No. That’s a fancy way of saying he thinks our friendship is about money or exchanging favors. Your pop doesn’t owe me anything; we just enjoy spending time together.”
“Pop says you bought Meg’s new phone.” Owen points out.
I resist the urge to facepalm. Who knew ten-year-olds are experts at cross-examination? “Yeah. But that was a gift, not a transaction.”
“Oh.” Owen considers.
I gaze longingly at the front of the interminable drop-off line for our turn to get me off the hot seat. The cars ahead of us are crawling. Most of the kids streaming toward the school have various snacks or grocery bags with them. I’m glad we stopped at the store, even if we are cutting it close on time as a result.
