Chapter 4
“Want to go to the diner to celebrate?” I ask Timmy as he tosses his wrestling bag on the back seat.
“Okay,” he says, climbing in the passenger seat and pulling the seatbelt harness across his body.
“Steak?”
“You realize I lost, right?”
“Yes. But I’m so proud of how far you’ve come in such a short time.”
“I didn’t get pinned. Big deal,”
“It is. And I want to get some protein in you to keep those muscles nice and strong.”
I give his bicep a squeeze. “Stop!” He pulls his arm away from me and puts his ear buds in shutting down the conversation.
For a change, I’m okay with the silence between us. I don’t have much to say, and the truth is, I want to run that little interaction with Mr. Carter over in my mind. I shouldn’t have gotten so happy with a look and a wink. Shouldn’t have blown it out of proportion. He smiled. Big whoop.
The diner is packed. I notice only one empty table as the hostess leads us to a booth in the back. And it just happens to be next to us.
After placing our orders, Timmy heads to the bathroom to wash his hands. I open the email on my phone. Two more authors have contacted me regarding my proofreading rates. I hate charging money for something I love to do and have been doing for free for years, but the money Mike left us is running low.
Eventually college won’t be a someday away, it’ll be tomorrow, and then today. I can’t count on the current financial aid guidelines they have for children of single moms to not change for five years. That’s too long of a time to think modifications won’t be made, and too short of a time for me to pretend it’s not racing up on us.
Timmy comes bounding back to the booth as the hostess seats someone at the table next to us.
“So, anything exciting happen at school today?”
My son looks at me like I’m a curiosity from outer space.
“I’m in middle school, Mom,” he says like answering me is the most painful thing he’s ever had to do. “Nothing exciting ever happens.”
I sigh, defeated. I have nowhere to go. No direction to lead the conversation. I’m starting to wonder why I even bother trying anymore. Maybe I should just lay off a bit and let him come around. I’m afraid if I take that approach, he might never come around.
“Great job out there today.”
Both our heads turn to find Mr. Carter standing at our booth. I’m thankful to see him, glad someone’s here to break the awkward silence between my son and me. Even if it is only for a minute or two.
“Thanks. I know I didn’t score, but at least I had a chance.”
“The wins will come. I’m betting you’re mom’s proud of you, too.”
“I am,” I say with a smile so big my cheeks hurt.
Mr. Carter turns toward me and winks. I melt a little inside. Warm blood flows around melting ice in my veins. Now I know without a doubt, without question, the earlier one was directed at me.
“What brings you here?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I was hungry, and didn’t really feel look cooking tonight. One of downsides to being a party of one.”
The waitress sets down the plates with our food and scuttles off.
“Tim, I want you to know I like the effort I’m seeing out there. Keep working hard. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get back to my table.” He looks over to the table next to us. The one that was empty when we came in.
I glance at my son, then back at Mr. Carter. There seems to be a real connection between him and Timmy. And at least my son talks to his coach. It sounds like they have actual conversations with give and take.
Without thinking my mouth opens and words slip out. “If you’d like, we’d love for you to join us, Mr. Carter.”
“At school I’m Mr. Carter. Here, please, call me Chance. And, only if you’re sure it’s not a problem.” His green eyes bore into mine.
A flash of heat rushes through me. I feel sweat beads form on the back of my neck. This must be the part of menopause women complain about. I always thought the heat flashes were overplayed. Now I understand how uncomfortable it is.
I clear my throat because thinking about going through my changes while looking at Chance Carter is downright depressing.
“No. No bother,” I manage to say.
“You good with this, Tim?”
My son nods, and his coach excuses himself for a moment to grab his drink and jacket.
“How long do you think it’ll take for the waitress to realize I moved over?” He asks Timmy, sliding into the booth next to him.
My son shrugs his shoulders and narrows his eyes. “I don’t know. Maybe half an hour?”
“Half an hour? Wow, you don’t have much faith in her do you?”
Timmy shrugs his shoulders. “She’s just a waitress.”
I want to hang my head in shame. I can’t believe what my son just said. That he would look down on anyone willing to do honest work, whatever it is. Where the hell did this attitude come from? And what does he think of me? After all I’m just a stay at home mother.
“Are you sure about that? I mean what if she really is a brain surgeon and she waits tables because she needs an escape from all the blood and gore she sees in the operating room? Or what if she has the cure to a new deadly virus, and the CDC is trying to stop it from ever getting out to the public, so she’s hiding in plain sight?”
I’d never think of going down this road to get my point across. If Mr. Carter wasn’t here, I’d probably lecture my son on how wrong it is to make a snap judgment about someone.
“Or,” Timmy plays along. “What if she’s on a mission to infect all the people with a brain eating virus through the food and this is how she sneaks it in? This way she can be the hero and heal everyone later.”
I’m captivated listening to my son and his coach go back and forth. It’s the first time in years I’ve seen Timmy get silly. I enjoy the playful banter between them. Timmy needs this. Not just the imaginative conversation, but the male bonding and influence.
It’s too bad Mr. Carter didn’t ask me that question. I would’ve told him it would take less than thirty seconds. As soon as she sees his seat empty she’ll know to look here. She had to notice him here, whether she wanted to or not. There’s no way any heterosexual woman can be oblivious to a man like Chance Carter.
*
“I guess what I’m most curious about is why Timmy wanted to start wrestling now, in eighth grade, when he didn’t have any interest in it for the last two years,” I say, as I take a bite of my burger, working to keep the conversation going until my son gets back from the bathroom.
“That would be my fault.” Chance’s eyes drop down to the table for a moment. “I had Timmy in my gym class when he first entered the school. I thought joining the team would be a good outlet for him with everything he had to deal with. He wasn’t ready then, but I never gave up. I knew eventually I’d get him to give it a try.”
“You were one of his sixth grade teachers?”
Mr. Carter’s smile returns. Only it doesn’t look happy. And there’s a tinge of something sad in his eyes.
“Yes. We met briefly when you came to school to share your concerns over what happened to your husband.”
“Oh, God.” I look away, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember you.” I feel like garbage admitting it. “I don’t really remember much from that time.”
“It’s fine.” Chance reaches across the table and places his hand over mine. It’s warm and rough and comforting as his thumb strokes the back of my hand. Another wave of heat rushes through my body. Maybe what I felt earlier wasn’t a hot flash? Maybe it was a surge of hormones from the growing attraction I have for this man. An attraction I absolutely shouldn’t feel.
“It was a tough time. I’m sure you felt like you were living in a fog for a while.”
I’m awed. How does he know?
“I did. Sometimes I still do.”
He gives me a sad smile as he pulls his hand away. I fight the urge to stop him and wrap my fingers around his. I want to hold on to something. Someone. I think he’s offering for me to hold on to him. But, no, that’s crazy. I’m misreading the situation.
Confused and uncertain, I look down at my napkin and fiddle with the corners.
“If you find yourself wanting to talk to someone, someone who won’t judge you. Someone you can just vent to about how unfair the whole situation is . . . I’m a pretty good listener.”
“Yeah, well.” I keep my eyes down, too nervous and self-conscious to look at him. My heart’s too full of emotion to meet his eyes. I shake my head. “I appreciate the offer, Chance, but I doubt you really want to hear—“
He leans forward, across the table. I lean in as well, like an invisible rope pulls me toward him. The distance between us is half of what it was thirty seconds ago. Something electric sparks as our eyes lock on one another.
“We all go through shit,” he says, staring at me as if we are the only two people in the diner, until Timmy snickers. He returned from the bathroom just in time to hear his coach say a bad word. Chance breaks the connection that had me sitting on the edge of my seat. He looks away. Retreats so that he’s leaning against the back of the booth. The air between us is thinner, easier to breathe. “Some of us go through it sooner rather than later, that’s all,” he says, making room for Timmy to sit.
“You seem very wise for someone so young.”
He laughs, and I like the sound. A lot. “Back to that, huh? Glad to see you’re not one to hold my age against me.”
Embarrassed, I drop my eyes to the empty dish in front of me. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m teasing. You might have noticed, I try not to take life too seriously.”
I nod. I remember being young and carefree. What I wouldn’t give to go back to that time.
“I might be a little younger than you—“
“A little?” I almost spit my soda out at him.
“But I know how important it is to have fun. And to have a support system. Sometimes it feels like people who haven’t had a life altering experience put an artificial timer on your feelings. Like after a certain amount of time, you shouldn’t be thinking about it anymore or you should be over it.”
I’m floored by how spot on he is. He had to go through something of his own. I can’t imagine what though. Or maybe he was there to help his mother through something, like Timmy tries to help me. Shit. That must be it. It must have been his mother.
“How do you know?”
“I’m wise beyond my years,” he teases.
“You’re right, though. For some reason, my pain, my grief is like a burden to the people around me. Don’t get me wrong, they were great in the beginning. I don’t think I would have made it through without their support. But now that some time has passed, it’s different. My best friend thinks I should get back out there and start dating. That I should just move on, like things didn’t work out because Mike and I were fighting all the time and we decided to break up.”
“You’re not ready.” He states it as a fact. I’m not sure why, but it bothers me.
“I don’t think it should be forced. I mean if the right man were to come along, someone I wanted to go out with, that would be different. But just to find one for the purpose of not being alone. I don’t see the point.”
He nods then turns to my son. “You know, Tim. I’m here for you too, if you need me.”
I feel dismissed. I shouldn’t, but I do. It smarts. I like the idea of having someone to talk to, to turn to. Maybe I said too much. Maybe I poured out more of my heart than he’d like to hear. If he can’t handle that, there’s no way in hell he wants to know how I really feel. How alone and heartbroken I am every second of the day.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Mr. Carter gets to his feet. Yep. I scared him off. Disappointment spreads across my chest. I want to take back what I said. I don’t want him to leave the table. Moreover, I don’t want to leave the diner and go back to an empty house. This was the nicest meal I’ve had since Mike died and I don’t want it to be over. “I’ll be right back.”
Neither of us say anything as Timmy’s coach walks away. I make an effort to keep my eyes trained on my son and not follow the man who so thoroughly captured my attention.
“Mr. Carter seems really nice. Is he this way with everyone?”
Timmy shrugs. “He’s okay.”
“How was that steak?” We’re back to forcing the conversation. This makes me realize just how much I enjoyed dinner. How nice it was to have another person at the table to talk to. To engage my son, and laugh with. I don’t know the last time it felt okay to laugh and smile. Or to just be me and not the phony I’ve become to placate the people that claim they care about me.
“Excuse me,” I flag down the waitress as she passes by. “Can I have the check please?”
“Already taken care of,” Mr. Carter says slipping back into the booth.
“What? You shouldn’t have.”
“It’s my way of thanking you for allowing me to crash dinner.”
Chance smiles, and I feel myself turning into a warm sticky mess. How do I keep him here? How do I keep the conversation going?
“That’s not necessary, really.” I reach into my pocketbook. “Let me give you something towards it.”
“Next time. Tonight’s my treat.”
Next time. Is he serious? I can’t imagine the look on my face. I immediately look at my son to see his reaction. There isn’t much of one. I guess that’s good. He doesn’t think much of the promise in Mr. Carter’s comment. Me, I’m clutching it close to my chest with both hands. I only hope next time comes fast.