My phone rings again. I know it’s Rachel. Guilt has had her calling me on the hour since I texted her to let her know they were discharging us.

With a deep breath, I silence the ringer. Exhaustion has even my hair feeling like it weighs too much tonight. There’s no way I can listen to her apologize more and fret over how the incident of Hayden’s allergic reaction occurred.

I know it was an accident.

My heart knows it was an accident.

Even my gut knows it was an accident.

Still, watching the tears run down Hayden’s face as they put an IV into his arm, and listening to his fears from the evening, has made it really hard for me to accept that the accident happened. So I text her.

I don’t have to fib and say he asked me to sleep next to him. She knows how I worry about him on nights that aren’t spent in the ER until after 10 p.m.

She sends me another apology along with wishes for a good night’s sleep, though we both know they won’t be granted.

Hours pass too slowly. Ones filled with my hand on Hayden’s chest, counting his breaths, and of making notes and plans for the Weile account, and doing more research to ensure I know every minute detail of cars and how Weile intends to set themselves apart with using another new form of alternative energy that won’t use carbon fuels until my eyes blur and burn.

I groan with objection when the blue walls of Hayden’s room begin to lighten. While I knew I wouldn’t get much sleep, I was hoping to catch a few intermittent hours to ensure I wouldn’t be in zombie mode, but sleep has been a myth tonight. Burying my face into a pillow and squeezing my eyes tightly shut, I wait for exhaustion to carry me to sleep, knowing that just a mere hour will help.

It feels as though my eyes have just closed when Hayden shifts and sits up, wide awake. “Hey, Mom.” He rubs his eyes, his voice chipper.

“Morning, baby. How are you feeling?” I sound like a giant frog with a cold.

“Good.” He sits up farther. “My arm’s kind of sore, but other than that, I feel good.” His reassurance makes my sleepless night easier to take when he proclaims he’s hungry for pancakes.

I’m grateful it’s Saturday. There was no way I would be comfortable with him out of my sight when he could still experience possible side effects from his allergic reaction. I should be feeling at ease. Hayden is okay. I’m now ahead with work from being up most of the night. We have the entire weekend together. Still, I can’t settle the restlessness that’s festering in my mind and stomach.

“Blueberry?” I ask.

“And whipped cream?”

“You cancel out the fruit when you put that stuff on it.”

“Aunt Rachel says pancakes are essentially mini fried cakes anyways.”

“Is that supposed to help your argument?” I raise my eyebrows at his balanced expression. “’Cause it’s not.”

He drops his shoulders, and his lips follow suit, along with his distinct eyes. “Please?” he begs.

“I might even have some bacon left.” I relent, pulling the blankets free with a single swoop. There wasn’t a chance I was going to say no to the whipped cream even without the puppy dog eyes. Not this morning, at least.

Shakespeare and Hayden cuddle under a large fleece blanket on the couch while I free the coffee grounds from the freezer so I can make what will likely be my first of a half dozen cups of coffee. The scent alone has my mind and muscles relaxing, and it furthers when Hayden giggles loudly at the cartoon. Even Shakespeare appreciates his laugh, her nose digging into the crook of his neck, knowing it will prolong the sound.

I slot the first round of bacon onto a pile of paper towels while the pancake batter rests, waiting for a hot griddle to create the scents of vanilla and blueberries to join the aromas, when the doorbell rings. Guilt swims through my belly as I head to answer it, knowing I should have texted Rachel before cooking breakfast.

An apology is already spewing from my mouth as I pull open the door but ends mid-sentence at the sight of Rachel’s new neighbor wearing a pair of gray sweatpants and sweat-dampened white T-shirt that clings to his chest, revealing defined planes of muscles. His name completely eludes me as I stare at him, wondering why he’s here and how to prevent Hayden from seeing him. After all, it seems like really bad parenting advice to admit I got into a car with someone whose name I can’t remember.

His brown eyes are wide, moving from my graphic tee, to my face and though I don’t know him—not a single thing other than where he lives and his occupation—I know his eyes are reflecting humor though his lips are relaxed. “I just wanted to come by and make sure everything went all right last night.”

Was his voice this deep yesterday?

His raised brow makes me blink back thoughts. “Yeah. Yes.” I shake my head for correcting myself, and take a controlled breath. “He slept well and seems to be back to his old self.”

And because my life serves as the headlining joke of some greater power, my smoke alarm blares from the kitchen, sending the fireman on my doorstep into action without delay or question.

“You don’t have to … it’s just burnt bacon!” I call, following him into the house.

Shakespeare circles him, barking loudly at the stranger while jumping on him, her ninety pounds nearly knocking him off balance as he reaches for the offending smoke alarm.

“Shakespeare!” My voice is lost in the chaos. “Shakespeare!” I yell loudly to distract her for a second, allowing Hayden to grab Shakespeare’s collar and pull her back.

It takes me a full three seconds to realize the wailing of the alarm has stopped and Rachel’s neighbor is staring at me, likely realizing I was gawking as his shirt stretched across his broad muscles while he reached for the smoke detector and removed the battery.

“Coen?” Hayden’s small voice has us both turning. My son sounds in awe of this man, and he’s too young to be idolizing Coen for his abs or quick call to action.

“Hey, little man. I just came by to check on you. See how you’re feelin’.”

I hate that I like everything about this way too much. From the way Coen is looking at Hayden with earnest attention to his voice being compassionate and warm to the fact that he just called him “little man” when Hayden’s own father never uses terms of endearment.

“I feel great.” Hayden smiles his shy grin that makes my heart grow warm and my lips involuntarily curl. “Thanks to you.”

My smile becomes a gape. I blink rapidly, as if clearing my vision will help me understand what my son just said. “Thanks to you?” I repeat.

“Didn’t Aunt Rachel tell you? Coen came over to help me last night.”

Thoughts are ricocheting off the previous ones so quickly not one registers. I’d assumed she had helped him. When she called to tell me they were taking him to the hospital, never had the idea that her neighbor—whom I barely know—had come over to administer help. Feelings of betrayal, confusion, anger, sadness—even hurt are wrapping around each of the thoughts still working to be understood, making them even more difficult to decipher. “Yeah. Yeah, I just…” Had no idea! “…total brainfart.” The words leave me before I can stop them, and my cheeks redden, already regretting that I said the word “fart” in front of the man who not only has abs I could climb like a ladder visible through his damp shirt but saved my son.

“Want to stay for breakfast? Mom’s making blueberry pancakes with whipped cream.”

Please say no.

Please say yes.

No! Say no.

Or … maybe say yes...

Coen looks at me, eyes narrowed with skepticism as though hearing my internal debate. Forcing a smile to feign comfort with the idea of him staying brings forth the dating vibe. This is in no way a date. Not even remotely.

“I should probably go.” He bends to pat Shakespeare on the flank. “We should check out the rest of your smoke alarms though. It’s always a good idea to ensure they’re all working.”

“You can’t say no to my mom’s pancakes. She makes blueberry syrup to go on top of them. They’re amazing. Don’t ask her to make any kind of meat, though, because it’s always burnt. But everything else she makes is amazing!”

“I don’t burn all the meat!”

“The bacon.” Hayden raises an eyebrow, looking from the scorched bits dumped on a separate plate to cool before throwing away to me and then to Coen, his grin growing with each pass. If his attempt at an inside joke wasn’t at my expense, this would be absolutely adorable, worthy of warming my heart and preventing me from nagging him to do the homework assignments he likely wasn’t able to do yesterday.

“I’m pretty sure I deserve the blame for that one,” Coen says with a smirk that almost makes me believe he knows what I’m thinking.

“She would’ve burnt it anyways.” Hayden shrugs. “The last of the pancakes and bacon both,” he adds.

“Hey!” I object.

Hayden glances at me, a smirk spread wide across his face. I like it too much to give him a lesson on being respectful or polite, especially since he’s right. His grin grows into an even wider smile, and he turns to Coen. “Can I help you check them?”

“Absolutely.” Coen’s confirmation has Hayden beaming.

Hayden leads Coen through the house, showing him where each smoke detector is located.

“Great news, they all work!” Hayden announces as they return to the kitchen.

“I heard.” I’m sure the entire neighborhood did. I’m a little surprised no one called or sent the fire department over.

“I talked Coen into staying too!”

A wave rolls in my belly at the thought of eating while sitting across from him. It’s ridiculous, really. I have never been shy when it comes to eating, and I already know he has no interest in me. And just as importantly, I have no interest in him. Therefore, my sloppy ponytail and Disney Princess shirt should not be awkward, but for some reason, there’s an itch that feels far too similar to embarrassment currently taking place in every nerve ending in my body.

It doesn’t improve when his dark brown eyes meet mine, a patience and kindness present that makes time slow to a stop, allowing me to memorize more than just the warm color and wide almond shape, but also the way my heart seems to both leap and flutter when his focus is solely on me.

It also doesn’t improve between bites of breakfast while he makes promises to Hayden about playing baseball with him or when he looks at me, delivering smiles that are each more impressive than the last. Or when he laughs at Hayden’s jokes, and listens to him tell us about his morning cartoon.

But it does get worse as we remain seated around the table though we finished eating nearly thirty minutes ago. “Why don’t you guys come over today? We can play some baseball, and get you feeling ready for your game this week.”

Hayden’s eyes are wide as saucers as he turns to me. “Can we, Mom?”

Coen stands, easing the obligation as he reaches for my cleared dishes.

“You don’t need to worry about those,” I say, also standing.

His gaze settles on me. “You fed me breakfast. This is the least I can do.”

Except he’s already done so much more. He saved my son.

“Do you think we can go over later and play baseball like he said, Mom?” Hayden asks after Coen has helped clear the table and left. My son’s face is bright with a smile that stretches from ear to ear. It’s contagious and hopeful and at the same time horrifying because I know how easy it is for people to overpromise and underdeliver, and sadly, so does my son.

“We’ll see.” I don’t add that he probably only said it to be nice and out of obligation.

“Come on, Mom. You can visit with Aunt Rachel while I go over.”

“Aunt Rachel is at work,” I tell him, reaching for my laptop.

“I’ll do all my homework.”

I look up from my background of Hayden from three years ago. His blue eyes are impossibly wide as they unfairly plead with me. Sighing, I look back to my computer and open the documents I need to gain some perspective and reason.

“He said he can teach me how to throw a curveball.” Hayden’s voice is quieter, softer, but the hope is louder than it had been.

I glance at the sticky note sitting on our fridge with Coen’s cell phone number scribbled across it. “Start working on your homework, and I’ll text him and see what his schedule looks like.”

Hayden practically leaps from the couch, radiating excitement and a new found level of energy as he races up to his bedroom to collect his backpack.

“If you hurt my son, I will hurt your pretty, curveball-throwing, lifesaving, pancake-eating ass, Coen DeLuca,” I grumble, walking into the kitchen and entering his number into my phone. I can’t message him yet, because I doubt he’s even made it home, but vow to once I go through the new emails I’ve received.

“Do you have everything?” I ask for the third time. The previous times I asked were both followed by Hayden dropping his bag and racing up the stairs to get something else.

He nods.

“You’re sure?” I ask. “You have your mitt, your bat, some balls, your helmet?”

“I don’t need my helmet, Mom. We’re just throwing the ball around his yard.”

“If you miss, it could hit you.”

“I’m not wearing my helmet.”

“Will you at least bring it?”

“No.” Hayden shakes his head. “If I do, you’ll make me wear it.”

He’s so right.

“Okay, let’s go.”

“Can we drive so we can get there faster?”

I was really hoping to walk so I could clear my head from work, but with Hayden’s duffel and my laptop bag in tow, I decide he’s right and grab my keys from the small table that sits by our front door.

The drive is too fast. My emotions are still too heightened by the stresses of work and the lasting ones from Hayden’s allergic reaction. I attempt to pocket all the loose ends of my fears and thoughts that have been swirling around in my head and paste a smile on my face as I turn to Hayden. “Ready?”

“Think he might let me come over again?” he asks, adding another fear to my web of thoughts. I pray Coen doesn’t disappoint my son or act like a raging lunatic if he does something wrong.

Reaching forward, I run my hand from his forehead to his chin, cupping his small face, appreciating each special and unique detail that make up my perfectly imperfect son. “We’ll see, baby. For now, let’s go have some fun.”

Hayden grins, then leans forward and kisses my cheek, leaving a wet outline of his lips on my skin. “Love you, Mom.”

“I love you more,” I assure him.

“I love you most.”

“Oh yeah?” I ask. “Well, I love you the mostest.”

“’Mostest’ isn’t a word,” he reminds me.

“In any other context, you’re right. But for this one, it definitely is.”

Hayden smiles as he shakes his head at me, his increasingly literal mind not willing to accept my excuse but his heart not wanting to break tradition keeping him from arguing further.

The front door of Coen’s house opens. His tall frame fills the space, cueing us both to opening our car doors. Getting out, I look to Rachel’s house, and a small pang of guilt dances with the creeping sensation of anger. It feels so weird to be parked in the driveway beside my best friend’s. It feels even stranger to feel so hurt by her.

“Hey, guys!” Coen calls, bringing my attention back to him as he dismounts the porch and begins walking toward us. “Glad you found the place okay,” he says, winking.

“You live right next to Aunt Rachel,” Hayden informs him with a smile.

“How convenient!” Coen’s smile isn’t one that displays sarcasm or mock shock. It’s genuine and kind and so warm that I find myself smiling back at him with matching enthusiasm.

“Well, are you ready to play some ball?” Coen asks Hayden, though his attention is once more on me.