Good, we’re even, because I don’t understand him either. All I know is that he has some big secret he doesn’t want to tell me because he’s afraid it will push me away. Fine. I’ll let him keep his secret for now.
“I should go,” I say as I hesitantly get to my feet.
“Please stay,” Ethan says. His mom looks from me to him and back, a small smile on her lips. “Abigail made cake.” He points toward it like he’s showing a prize on a game show.
“It’s…lovely,” Ethan’s mom says. But then she starts to laugh.
“It’s the ugliest cake ever,” I admit, and I’m laughing too.
“It really is,” Ethan’s son agrees.
Ethan gasps. “Mitchell! Manners! Apologize to Miss Abigail.”
He looks up at his dad. “Did I say something wrong?”
“Actually,” I say, jumping in, “he’s right. Mitchell? That’s your name?” I look at the boy, and he nods. “Well, Mitchell, this cake is very ugly, but it’s also very good. Would you like to try it?”
Mitchell looks up again at his father, seeking permission. “Can I have some?”
Ethan tousles his son’s hair. “Of course, you can.” He goes and finds another fork. He looks at me and mouths the words thank you.
I nod at him and he puts his full attention on his son. It’s like he can’t take his eyes off him now that he gets to see him. And watching the two of them together—that’s perfection. Mitchell looks just like Ethan did when he was younger. He’s playful and thoughtful and funny, just like Ethan. But what he’s not is wary. Ethan wears enough of that for all of us.
“Did you make a wish?” the little guy asks.
Ethan leans over and presses a kiss to his forehead. “I did.” His eyes meet mine. “And then it came true.”
10
Ethan
Looking into my son’s face is like looking into the sun. He’s everything I’ve ever wanted, everything I’ve ever dreamed of, and everything I’ve ever wished for, all wrapped up in one perfect package. When I told my mother that I wasn’t ready to see him, that was more for his benefit than mine. I break the things I touch, and I’m afraid that I’m going to break him too. But now he’s here and looking away from him would be like avoiding the light the sun gives us each day. Even if I closed my eyes, he’d still be there.
And he is a-fucking-mazing. He sits at the little picnic table in my campsite and eats cake straight from the cake plate with a plastic fork, and he looks happy about it. He has a grin that could light up a city.
“Who are you?” Mitchell asks, as he looks over at Abigail sitting on the other side of the picnic table, next to my mom. She’s startled when he speaks to her, and she looks to me like she needs guidance. I smile at her and shrug. This is all new to me too.
“She’s my best friend,” I say. Then I immediately want to bite the words back, but they’re already out there, hanging in the air between us. “I mean, we were best friends when we were young. Long time ago,” I clarify. I look at her, and find her staring at me, her eyebrows up, laughter in her gaze as she watches me try to crawl my way out of this one. She crosses her arms and glares at me. “When we were thirteen, we were best friends,” I say, and then I stop because I have no more words, but the lack is leaving me sitting there feeling like I just dropped my pants and I’m now naked in front of all of them.
My mom laughs. “These two used to do everything together,” she says. She rolls her eyes. “We couldn’t keep them apart.”
It’s true. On Friday nights, we would arrive before her family did, and we’d get our tent set up, and I’d hang out on the path that led to her cabin, waiting to see her family drive up. I’d wait until they parked, and then I’d run over and help them unload the car. Really, I just wanted Abigail to be done with her chores so she could come and do things with me.
“She was the best part of summers at Lake Fisher,” I say. Abigail’s face softens as she looks at me.
“Did you have sleepovers?” Mitchell asks. His feet swing as he sits and eats cake, bite after bite. I assume that my mother will make him stop if there’s even a remote chance it can make him sick. But she doesn’t. She just lets him eat.
“No sleepovers,” I admit. “But only because her grandmother wouldn’t let us.”
“Because she’s a girl,” he states. He shakes his head. “Girls are weird.”
“Girls are not weird,” Ma says, correcting him. “They’re just a little different from boys.”
“They smell funny and they wear bras,” he says. He looks at Abigail. “Do you wear a bra?”
She smothers her laugh by pretending to wipe her mouth. “I do,” she says.
“Nana takes hers off as soon as she comes home from work,” he says. “She doesn’t like them.”
Abigail pretends to reach up and adjust her shoulder strap. “They can be a little confining, but we make do.” She says it like she’s imparting a secret.
“When Grandma goes running, she has to wear one or her boobies flop all over the place.”
My mother lets out a snort and says, “That’s enough talk about bras and flopping boobies.”
I bark out a laugh before I can reconsider it.
“Well, that’s what you said,” Mitchell answers, looking like he’s confused.
She gives him a scolding look, one that would have had been a warning back in my day. “Some things are private,” she says as she glares at him.
“I kind of like this conversation,” I say. I lean back and cross my arms, lifting my feet to rest them on a nearby chair. I settle in for the shit-show that could potentially erupt. “What else does Grandma do that she doesn’t want you to talk about?”
He laughs and looks at my mother, who warns him with her eyes that this is not an appropriate conversation. “Nothing,” he mutters. He grabs his stomach. “I don’t feel so good.”
“Is he okay?” I ask immediately.
“He’s fine. His running off at the mouth is making him feel bad.” She’s still glaring at him, but now she’s doing it playfully.
“So, Dad, this is where you live?” He looks around the campsite with an appraising eye, nodding as he takes in the little stove, the fishing rod that’s standing next to the tree, and my tent.
I gesture to the campsite. “This is where I live. For now,” I rush to clarify. I don’t want him to go out and tell people I live in a tent. “I’m working on moving into one of the cabins. Soon. I plan to do it soon.”
“Why do you live in a tent?” he asks.
“I like to be outside,” I admit. I don’t want to give him more information than that. I don’t want to tell him what I told Katie earlier, that I don’t want to feel like I’ve been locked up again. That I don’t want to be tied to a place that’s not mine.
“Can I come and stay with you?” He looks from me to my mother and back.
She gestures to me like she’s helpless. “This one is on you, son,” she says, as she waves her hand in the air.