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I didn’t even ask for Cutter’s help the night my car wouldn’t start.
He offered. I accepted.
Move on.
“Smells like pasta,” Saxon says as he walks into the kitchen.
I stir the penne and eye the jar sauce in a pan, warming up.
“Bread and butter?” I ask him.
“I’ve got to cook now too?”
“I hardly consider that cooking.”
“I should have stayed in my room.”
“Your fault,” I say.
Saxon gives me an eye roll and then butters up enough bread for me and him.
I have places set at the dining room table, plus a fresh salad made.
I can already tell he’s going to ask if he can eat in his room tonight.
It’s a fifty-fifty chance I’ll say yes.
Tonight it’s about a ninety-nine percent chance.
He’s in a mood and wants to hang in his room. I respect that. Being ten is awful. (His words, not mine.)
“Mom,” Saxon says.
“It’s fine.”
My son looks at me. “How do you do that?”
I point at my head. “Mom brain. The most powerful thing in the world.”
“Right,” Saxon says.
I finish making the pasta, mix it with the sauce, and hand Saxon what used to be a white spoon. It’s stained an almost orange color from pasta sauce.
He scoops himself a gigantic bowl and disappears before I can remind him to make a salad at some point too.
“Brat,” I whisper with a smile.
That’s how I end up sitting alone at the dining room table, enjoying a small bowl of cheap pasta, store bought sauce, and salad that came from a bag.
Mom life.
My thoughts ease their way to a certain person, but for good reason.
I know that Cutter Buckley is not staying for long. It’s not like he moved here or anything like that. He's here to rehab an injury and then go back to his famous baseball player life. Which means he could end up being in town for only a few days or so.
I am not letting him get away without me paying him back for the car battery.
I check the time on my phone and make the assumption that he’s at the gym swimming right now. There’s no way in hell I am going back to his house. Not after what happened. Even though I know exactly where he lives.
