Page 189 of Wait for Him

He grins and wipes his face with his sleeve. "And then you didn't come back after that last time you were here, and I didn't want to hurt Mom and Dad's feelings by asking about you, so I just... I don't know." He shrugs. "I'm glad you came back tonight. I like that we have the same hair."

He reaches up and touches the white streak in mine, careful with his fingers, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek because we've cried enough into dinner for one evening.

"What else do you want to know? You can ask me anything."

"You know I don't hate you or blame you or anything, right? Mom and Dad are giving me a really great life. Even if they didn't need to bring my siblings into it. They annoy me."

I smile at him.

My son.

"I didn't know that, actually. But I'm really fucking glad you said it out loud."

"I like that you say curse words." He laughs. "You're kind of a badass."

"Kind of?" I nudge him with my shoulder. "Don't insult me five minutes into our relationship."

He laughs harder, and God, I could get addicted to that sound very quickly.

"I watched a video of you arguing that case against the engineers who designed the bridge that collapsed. The opposing counsel was such a prick, but you were..." He stops himself and shakes his head. "Sorry. I don't mean to come on so strong."

"No, please, go on. You've finally found the safest possible subject." I sit back and gesture for him to continue. "Tell me more about how impressive I am. Be specific. Cite sources."

That gets another laugh out of him.

So he does.

He walks me through my own cross-examination like a highlight reel, complete with a truly terrible impression of opposing counsel that makes me laugh hard enough to wipe fresh tears from my face. By the time he gets to his favorite part, it's clear he's watched the damn thing more than once.

More than that, it's becoming clear that this boy knows nearly as much about me as I know about him.

We've both been looking.

That realization settles quietly between us while we go back to our plates and actually eat this time. We order dessert and hot chocolate, and James tells me about his favorite teachers, his best subjects, the internship he's applying for and the contraptions he's built all over Samson and Lauren's house.

By the time we look up, the restaurant has emptied out. The only other occupied table is Samson, Lauren, and the kids, all of them watching us with tears in their eyes because nobody had the heart to interrupt whatever this turned into.

"We shut the place down, James." I hold up my hand, and he high-fives me as we stand and make our way over.

"Mom. Dad." James shuffles on his feet, nervous all over again. "Could I go stay the night with Rosalie?" Then he turns toward me, face immediately uncertain. "Is it okay if I call you that? Or Rose? I mean, Mom is Mom, and I don't... I just don't think that..."

"You can call me Al," I say, cutting him off before he ties himself into a complete knot.

His head drops back and he laughs, and thank God, because I could see the poor kid drowning in his own sentence.

Samson turns away and wipes at a stream of tears he clearly thinks nobody saw. Lauren crosses to James and takes his face gently in both hands.

"You don't have to ask permission to spend time with your mother, honey. And she is your mother." Her voice is steady, even with her eyes full. "I'll always be Mom. That will never change. But so is she. Always. And you don't ever have to feel bad about that."

Then she reaches for me, takes one of my hands and one of James's, and folds them together between hers.

"You take your time with all of this. Both of you. This is a good, good thing."

James's eyes fill again, and Lauren wipes the tears away with her thumb before he pulls her into a hug. Over his shoulder, Samson catches my eye and gives me a wink.

I press a hand over my heart.

For the wink. For the photographs. For fifteen years of doing exactly what they promised me they'd do, and somehow doing it even better than I ever let myself hope.