He smiles, and I die when he does, because he’s just so cute, so fucking cute that if I could stop time and keep him this age forever, I would.
I’m a balloon of happiness right now, because this diner in Lost Bay, along the shores of Lake Superior, is the place to be today. There’s an art show in town, and the place is buzzing with energy, with smiles and laughter and friendly hugs and clinking glasses. Celebration is in the air, because the town is also hosting a wedding tomorrow, one that will join two of its most prominent citizens.
The bell above the door jingles, and I look up, snap my attention up, feeling a swoony woosh in my stomach as I do. But then, when I see the elderly couple tottering over the threshold, it dissipates just as quickly.
I spear some lettuce with my fork, think about ordering a bacon cheeseburger to go. Everything about my pregnancy was bliss except for the weight gain. Over four years later and I’m still fighting the last ten pounds.
“What are we gonna dress up as tomorrow?” Grayson tugs on the brim of his baseball hat (the Minnesota Twins) and cocks his head. Because today he’s a baseball player, and I resemble a bespeckled version of Uma Thurman’s character from Pulp Fiction.
I shift in my seat, feel the waistband of my black slacks cut into my gut, and decide against the bacon cheeseburger.
“Well, tomorrow’s event is special, so I think we should go with something dressy.”
He considers this for a moment, then nods. “What color hair are you gonna wear?”
“I might just go with my normal hair. What do you think about that?”
His face lights up. “I like that best. Your real hair looks like the sunset. Or…a strawberry!”
He snickers, and I giggle, and we’re having just the best time, the best damn time.
We go back to our meals, and after a few minutes, he looks up, little brow furrowed. “I wish Daddy was here. Will he be back for the party tomorrow?”
“Sorry, munchkin. Daddy’s gone for another week.” He squints in concentration, and I give him time to count.
“That’s seven days, right?”
“Yep.” I point my fork at him. “You are so smart, you know that?”
He blushes, of course he blushes, because even though he’s a genius, my little guy is humble.
Just like his dad.
The bell above the entrance jingle-jangles again, and my attention swings toward the sound, as if there’s a rope hitching my head to the door.
This time, I see what I’ve been waiting almost five years to see.
In person, at least.
I’ve seen him in pictures a million and a half times over the last one thousand seven hundred and seventy-one days. Social media is good like that.
But it’s not enough.
It’s never enough.
I only want to watch.
He makes his way over to a corner booth, where a woman with black hair in a pageboy cut is waiting with a big fucking smile on her face. His sandy hair is wet with rain, plastered to his forehead and darker due to the afternoon’s deluge. He’s still lean, though. Lean and firm, and his trademark black t-shirt sticks to his form, hugs his broad shoulders.
It’s been raining for days, the last two that Grayson and I have been in Lost Bay, and I take comfort that Universe is mourning right along with me.
I’m only here to watch.
My eyes are greedy little spy cameras, tracking his every move. He runs his fingers through his hair before sliding into the booth next to the bit—I mean woman, next to the woman. Of course they can’t sit across from each other, like normal people. They’ve got to flaunt their goddamn relationship, act as if they’re the only fucking people on the planet. As if everyone wants to see him cradle her cheeks in his artist’s hands and press his perfect lips to her so-not-perfect ones. (I mean, her upper lip is practically non-existent.)
I tear my gaze away from the happy couple (the fucking happy couple) when the waitress approaches, a pitcher of water in her hand and a rubbery smile plumping her lips. She’s thick and short, with a pointy nose and frizzy hair and an unfortunate lack of jawline. But when she smiles at Grayson, he beams back at her, because he doesn’t get caught up in superficial shit like appearances. Nope, not my boy.
He’s a fucking angel.
And he’s teaching me to be such a better person. Did I mention that?
Instinct tells me the waitress is around my age, though lifestyle has packed on the appearance of added years. The tag pinned to the shoulder of her apron reads Gwendolyn A, as if there’s a chance she might be confused for Gwendolyn C, D, M, or Z. The plastic plating is cracked with age, a sign that she’s a lifer here, at this greasy spoon built on the shores of the lake. I can only imagine it’s torture working here, being subjected to sprawling views of Lake Superior yet being stuck inside, a servant to the masses. Gwendolyn A hides her misery well, though. She fills our water glasses, animated as she chats about how busy it is, how much busier than normal it is because there’s a wedding tomorrow and so many people are up from The Cities to attend. She promises Grayson a free piece of apple pie (how apropos!) for being so cute, and when she returns with it, I smile, smile, smile at her and ask about the wedding. “Do you know the couple?”
She nods. “You betcha. Everyone up here knows Ford and Soleil. Their art gallery brings a lot of business to Lost Bay. In fact, the whole town’s pretty much shutting down to attend the nuptials. We’re even closing early tonight so we can start prepping the dinner.” Her cheeks pinch up. “We’re serving fried chicken and waffles. How off-the-wall adorable is that?”
My lips skin back from my teeth, turning my smile into grimace. “Positively precious.”
“Yeah, we’re all really looking forward to it.” She gives me an odd look, though I’m hardly bothered. I doubt she sees much sophistication in this blip of a Podunk town and therefore isn’t quite sure what to make of me. Pretty much everyone in here is dressed in flannel shirts and trapper hats and stiff bargain-bin jeans. There’s constant nodding and smiling and a lot of phrases like “Hey, there!” and “Good to see ya!” thrown around. In fact, we’ve only been here for a couple days and already the PTSD from my youth has resurfaced, reminding me again why I live in a bigger city.
Blissful anonymity.
“Anyway,” she says eventually, her eyes lingering on my wig, “can I get you two anything else?”
I shrug and shake my head. The wig, which is far shorter than my real hair, swings pleasantly against my chin, and I’m reminded of how much fun it is to be someone else. The last time I wore this was two years ago, when I lured a drunk Randall Beaumont out of a holiday party and into a sleazy hotel where I got him hard and naked. The man was so distracted by my tits that he didn’t even notice the amateur photographer I’d hired lurking in the corner, documenting our nasty deed. Long story short (though it’s really not that long), he’s now divorced and no longer lives next door to our lake home.
Unlike Nicholas, Randall didn’t have a prenup. I take comfort in this on the days when missing Grayson’s dad becomes too much.
Remembering how I played a role in Randall’s demise makes me smile wider, so wide that the laugh dancing in my chest rises to the surface, sneaks right out of my mouth. “No. We’re good, good, good here.” I throw Grayson a wink. “Right, munchkin?”