“That old busybody needs an attitude adjustment,” Jenner mutters darkly. His next (and much more explicit) words are covered by the hiss of the milk steamer. “You should tell her to take her nasty attitude someplace else.”
“If I kicked out everyone who had something to say about my family or me, I wouldn’t have much of a business left.” Instead, I just smile and take their money and ignore their small-mindedness. Except for those who really get under my skin because their butter cookies or scone might find themselves swiped along the floor before it reaches their table. If they’re particularly mean, I might even let Moose, the chihuahua cross Brillo pad, lick it. And she licks her butt.
“You don’t need their money,” he huffs.
“Spoken like a person with no responsibilities.”
“And you don’t need their attitude stinking up the place, not while Wilder sits in hearing distance. You might have the hide of a rhino,” he censures. “Your son does not.”
“But he does have on his headphones.” My words are light even as my stomach twists. My part-time barista sure knows how to poke my Achilles heel.
“Mom?” As though hearing his name, my child’s eyes flick to mine, his voice carrying loudly across the space. “What’s my dad’s favourite colour?” he asks, lifting one of the muffin-sized domes from his ear.
“Orange.” My answer is unnecessarily loud, more so even than Betty’s senior citizen mutters and Wilder’s headphone instigated loudness combined. Maybe I should’ve gone with blue. It seems more plausible. Also, gender stereotyping? “Orange,” I repeat with a firm nod of my head.
It’s not like he’s around to contradict me, I think as I grab a tiny teapot from the shelf so fast that the top audibly rattles. Besides, all parents lie.
The toy store is closed.
Carrots help you see in the dark.
If the wind changes, you’ll stay that way.
Good job, honey. Yes, of course I can see it from here!
But my untruths are less fudging and more a necessity when it comes to Wilder’s father because there are a lot of things I don’t know about him. I don’t know if he prefers baseball over football, what kind of car he drives, where he lives, what he does for a living or . . .
Well, you get the picture.
His name is Roman, and he’s Australian. I know he drinks scotch and double espressos, though not at the same time. The other things I know about him aren’t really suitable for my son’s tender ears. Like how he has a hundred different smiles, each one of them more persuasive than the last, and has the kind of skills that could induce an ordinarily sensible girl into a night of recklessness.
Roman is too tall, too handsome, and just far too tempting. He was also fast. Fast in the old-fashioned separate a girl from her panties sense, as well as the disappearing kind.
His loss. I glance across at my pride and joy, glad his attention has returned to the pad and his orange colouring pencil. I have never, not for one moment, regretted giving over my twenties to motherhood. How could I? My kid is amazing. I’ll tell him the truth when he’s old enough to understand and at a time when there isn’t anyone listening in.
Popping a teabag into the flowered teapot, I turn back to the hot water urn and fill it to the brim.
“So orange.” Jenner’s lowered voice borders on salacious as he sets Betty’s latte onto the tray. “Is that the colour of his jumpsuit? Or maybe he gets to wear monochrome stripes and a cute little hat?”
I lift my gaze from contemplation of the foam on the latte and fix it on him as he flips a towel over his shoulder.
“We’ve never seen him around so . . .”
“He’s not a criminal.” Unless it’s criminal to be sexy.
“You know, you could just tell me. Give up this whole cloak and dagger Harry Potter he who should not be named thing.”
Jenner and I might spend our days together, but that doesn’t mean I’d confide in him. Not willingly. Wilder should be the first to hear this story—his origin story—and according to a library full of single parenting books, that doesn’t need to happen for quite some time. Thank God. Meanwhile, I’ll just keep spinning tall stories to fill in those gaps. Hopefully, by the time he’s old enough to understand, he’ll be so grossed out by the thought of his mother having sex that I’ll be able to gloss over the little detail of knowing his father for the sum total of one night.
“No judgment here.” Jenner’s voice breaks my introspection. “Rule breakers are hot.”
Except rule breaking is what got me here. Got me stuck in this coffee shop in this tiny town filled with people like Betty—people with big opinions and tiny minds. But it also brought me Wilder. And the flip side is that it pays for the roof over our heads and the food in our bellies. Things could be worse. I know because I’ve experienced them.