“How old is your son?” he asked. “The one you mentioned in your letter.”
I almost choked on the bite of salad. It was an innocent question. No big deal. He wasn’t asking anything specific. “I only have one son,” I said with a nervous laugh. “You didn’t need to be specific. He’s eight.”
He took a bite of his own salad. “I’m not good at beating around the bush,” he said. “So, I’m just going to say it. If I’m blunt, sorry.”
“Okay, I’ve learned that about you. I expect it of you.”
“Where’s the father?” he asked.
I swallowed the lump of lettuce in my throat. That was not the question I expected. It was rude. “He’s dead,” I blurted out. When I saw him flinch, I realized my answer was cold. “I mean, he died before Jace was born.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“Were you close?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Not really.”
“You weren’t married?”
I smiled and sipped my diet soda. “I didn’t know you were so old-fashioned.”
“I guess I assumed you were,” he countered. “You’ve always struck me as traditional.”
“I guess I’m not,” I said.
“I can’t say I’m not sad that I don’t have to deal with baby-daddy drama,” he said nonchalantly.
I raised an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”
“I don’t want your baby daddy getting jealous.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re safe.”
“I can’t believe you have a kid,” he said. “I never pictured you as a mom.”
“Were you expecting something frumpy?”
“I guess. I don’t know. I’m not sure. It just took me by surprise. Is he a good kid?”
I smiled. “I don’t think any parent is going to say no, whether the kid is good or bad. We tend to be kind of territorial and oblivious at the same time.”
“Is he like you or like his dad?”
The questions were getting harder. They were innocent, but when he asked, it felt like I was being interrogated. “I’m not sure,” I said. “I guess me. I’m the only one that has been around him. I’ve raised him. He only has me to be influenced by.”
“I see. I guess that makes sense. Does he do well in school? Does he have your math brain?”
“You’re opening a can of worms,” I warned him with a laugh. “Another piece of advice. Parents will brag and talk about their kids all day.”
“I don’t mind. I asked.”
“He is smart. Very smart. Unfortunately, when you’re in the third grade, being smart isn’t necessarily a key to being popular.”
He frowned. “Is he picked on?” he asked.
It was a topic close to my heart. I slowly nodded. “He is.”
“I’m sorry. That’s brutal. I’ve been there before. It is not fun.”
“I just don’t know how to help him. I thought quitting my job was the answer. It did seem to help, but I don’t know if it’s a permanent solution.”
“Are they beating him up?”
“I don’t know if I could say beating him up, but when I had to leave a couple of weeks ago, it was because he’d been punched by one of the boys.”
His eyes narrowed. “They hit him?”
“Yes. It’s so sad because he is such a good kid. He’s funny and nice and they are just not getting to see him for who he really is.”
“How does your son take it?” he asked. “What’s his name?”
“Jace, and he takes it like a champ, but I know it hurts him. I can’t help but feel guilty.”
“Why would you feel guilty?” he asked.
I shouldn’t tell him, but I was desperate to get a man’s opinion. “Because he’s never had a male influence in his life. It’s just me. I feel like I might be making him a target. The kids tell him he isn’t a real boy.”
“Why would they say that?”
“Because he doesn’t have a dad and doesn’t play sports. I’m not going to say he’s effeminate, but he’s not really the rough-and-tumble type. He tends to like drawing and reading more than chasing other kids around on the playground. His best friend is a girl.”
“And they say he isn’t a real boy?” he asked with shock. “What is that about? What little shits.”
It made me feel good that he was riled up on behalf of my little guy. “They are shits. I think I need to get out there and throw a ball at him or something.”
“With him,” he said.
“What?”
“You don’t want to throw the ball at him. You want to toss the ball around with him.”
“Oh, yeah, that,” I said and waved my fork. Now that I was talking about it, I couldn’t stop. “I taught him how to ride a bike. Isn’t that boyish?”
“Don’t girls ride bikes?” he questioned.
“Yes, but I wanted to make sure he could. I don’t see why he has to play sports. He likes to do other things. Not all boys play football.”
“No, they don’t.”
“It’s not like he is the only kid that comes from a one-parent household. Isn’t that more common than a two-parent household?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. I went to school with a lot of kids that only lived with their moms.”
“Exactly!” I said and slapped my hand on the table. “He’s a little small for his age, but his dad is a big guy. He’ll probably be one of the biggest kids in his class once he hits his stride.”
“His dad is big?”
“What?” I asked.
“You said is, like his dad is still alive. You used it in the present tense.”
Damn. “Habit. I meant to say his dad was big.”
“It sounds like your son, Jace, could use a man day.”
“Turns out I’m fresh out of men,” I quipped.
“Would you like me to hang out with him?” he offered.
“What? You?”
“I am a man,” he said with a smirk. “You want me to prove it? Again?”
“No. But you’re busy.”
“I could come by this weekend. Are you doing anything on Saturday?”
I didn’t know what to say. “Uh, no. Not really. I usually take Jace to the park or to hang out with a friend.”
“I could go to the park and we can throw a ball around.”
I slowly shook my head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I said.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because I love my son.”
He stared at me for several seconds. “I didn’t offer to come over and kill the kid. I offered to hang out with him. Share a little testosterone.”
“I don’t know,” I said. It was exactly what I wanted for him, but I didn’t think Nash was the right man for the job.
“Whatever. Suit yourself. I was offering to help. I’m a guy. I can hang out with him. With you, of course. A boy needs a strong, male figure to emulate. You know that. You are worried about it because you know it’s a thing.”