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My eyes rake over her. I see the small frown lines between her clear gray eyes, and she looks… stressed. This can’t be easy for her. They are having to move again. And she’s being forced to share her son.
Shame washes over me, hot and unwelcome. I haven’t really made things easy for her. With a sigh that rumbles deep within me, I make a silent vow. I have to try, for both our sakes, to navigate this minefield of emotions and make things smoother and less stressful - for both of us.
Her brow furrows in concentration, and she bites her lower lip. Stress shadows her eyes, but beneath it, I think I see a flicker of something else – a flicker of uncertainty?
She’s as uncomfortable as I am. Maybe there is a chance for us to navigate this together.
“Anna,” I start to move forward, my voice low and tentative. “Let me help you with that.” It’s a small gesture, a tentative offering of support, but it feels like a significant step forward.
Her eyes flicker to mine with a tinge of surprise. Then, a tentative smile graces her lips, taking the olive branch I’m offering. “Thanks,” she murmurs, her voice softer than usual. “I wanted to move these pans to the lower shelf.”
As I navigate around her in the cramped kitchen, our arms brush accidentally. It sends awareness slicing through me. An attraction that leaves me seeking more oxygen as I take in a deep breath. I grit my teeth, willing myself to focus on the task at hand. Grasping the heavy pans, I carefully transfer them to the lower shelf, keeping my movements controlled.
Once I’m finished, I step back. I glance around the kitchen, my gaze landing on the step stool she recently purchased from Amazon, now sitting in the pantry. A light bulb seems to turn on in my head. I reach for the cabinet knobs, opening a few to find them reorganized. She’s relocated things, so they are all within her reach.
It dawns on me – she wasn’t just avoiding me. She’s settling in. She’s carving out a space for herself within my home. I nod in silent understanding.
“You’ve been busy. This is really coming together,” I say to her with an approving glance. She gives me a tentative smile. And suddenly, everything between us seems normal again. Then she turns around with a quick, “Let me just move this one skillet.”
As she steps toward the still-open lower cabinet, I get a whiff of her lavender scent, which is uniquely hers. She bends over, her back to me, and instantly, my eyes go to her firm, rounded backside. My eyes linger on her sweet ass for a few minutes too long. And all my carefully controlled plans go instantly out the window. As my body wants to grab her by her hips—I suddenly hear a slight sound and remember Connor is with us, sitting at the kitchen counter.
He’s doodling on a pad. Innocently unaware of the now different tension that wants to overtake my good intentions. Needing to resist it, I abruptly turn, walk out of the kitchen, and grab my keys.
“Everybody ready? Let’s get out of here.”
Fourteen
Anna
It’s Friday afternoon, and a strange sense of harmony hangs in the air. I feel like there’s been a subtle shift in my relationship with Carson. It started the other day. I don’t know what happened, but Carson seems to have softened toward me.
It feels like a fragile peace, but I’ll take it. I’ve heard back from the school, and somehow, I have a suspicion that Carson was involved. Connor will be starting fifth-grade classes next Monday at Bolles, a private school that offers excellent sports programs.
We’ve just returned from shopping, mostly for school clothes, because our moving boxes won’t be delivered until early next week. But everything seems to be coming along. Each of us grabs a shopping bag as we head toward the elevator.
Connor suddenly spies a motorcycle parked off to the side. With his usual enthusiasm, he rushes toward it, eyes wide with admiration. “Hey, look. It’s a Harley like Uncle Chase has.”
Carson and I both stop as well. Connor continues to admire the sleek black Harley Davidson cruiser. I’m juggling the shopping bags when I hear Carson admit, “Yeah, it’s mine.”
“What? Really?” Connor, his eyes wide, turns toward Carson. “That’s yours?”
Carson nods, “Yeah, I came down this morning and took the cover off it to make sure it was ready for tonight,” he tosses the words out casually. “I thought you’d like to ride with me to Wild Riders.”
My son’s face lights up with excitement. “Really? Dad, that’s so cool!” He turns to me, oblivious to the storm brewing inside me. “Mom! Did you hear that? I’m going on a motorcycle ride!”
I feel my face go pale as I imagine my son on the back of that… that machine. What if…? A wave of nausea washes over me, followed quickly by a wave of anger.
Connor doesn’t seem to notice my lack of response. But Carson does. He glances over at me as I give a furious frown at his high-handedness. How dare he offer Connor a ride without consulting me first?
Without saying a word, I stalk toward the elevator, viciously jabbing the button. Distance is what I need right now. Otherwise, I will say something in front of my son, and he doesn’t need to hear us arguing. And there will be an argument!
The apartment door slams shut behind me with a satisfying bang. I head straight for the laundry room. Ripping the new clothes off their hangers, I try to take deep, calming breaths, but the air seems thick with my pent-up rage.
My hands are shaking with my emotions as I brace my arms against the cold metal of the washing machine. I remind myself to be rational and to give Carson the benefit of the doubt. He’s new to this whole parenting thing. Yet, my anger rises like a tidal wave, drowning out the voice of reason.
Suddenly, Carson enters, carrying the remaining shopping bags. He casts me a wary glance.
“I... uh… I told Connor he could shoot some hoops while we… talk.”
