Page 5 of One Night Flame

There, half-covered by Liam’s latest stick-figure drawing of a volcano with googly eyes, was a photo of the three of us—me, Liam, and Marcus—taken during some long-ago “trying to make it work” phase. The edges were curling. The smile on my face looked hopeful. Marcus looked distracted. Two-year-old Liam’s was the only one that felt real.

I kept telling myself I’d take the photo down when it didn’t sting anymore. Apparently, not yet.

He said he wasn’t ready to be a dad.

I didn’t get to not be a mom.

The ache was quieter now than it used to be. But some mornings, it still hit just right—between the cereal bowls and the forgotten shoes and the goodnight kisses I gave myself when there was no one else left to give them.

The front door opened with no knock, because when had that ever stopped her?

“Incoming,” came the familiar voice, followed by the tap-tap of ankle boots and the unmistakable scent of vanilla, hairspray, and defiant optimism.

I didn’t even look up. “Good morning, Grandma.”

“I brought muffins,” she announced, appearing in the kitchen like she owned the place. Which, in fairness, she kind of did—I was leasing the house from her. “And don’t bother asking what kind. Lola sent what she thought would be the best emotional support.”

She dropped the box from Pie Hard on the counter with a flourish, like she’d just solved hunger and loneliness.

I arched a brow. “Did you just want muffins, or did you come to check that we’re both still alive?”

“I got a thumbs-up emoji from you last night. That’s distress code for ‘send food and reinforcements.’”

I rolled my eyes and started stacking Liam’s school papers. “It was a thumbs-up because I was too tired to type full words.”

“Exactly.” She poured herself a cup of coffee without asking, because of course she did, and leaned against the counter like she had all morning.

She looked good, as usual—red lipstick, oversized earrings, a moto jacket she’d probably stolen from someone half her age. She had the energy of a woman who knew she was a handful and fully expected the world to adjust. I loved her to pieces.

While I pulled Liam’s backpack together and shuffled through his permission slips, I saw her glance at her phone and tap out a text, her expression too smug to be innocent.

“Book club?” I asked without looking up.

“Mahjong mafia,” she replied breezily. “We’re very political.”

I narrowed my eyes at her. “You’re up to something.”

“I’m always up to something. Keeps me young.”

Before I could press further, she turned the full wattage of her attention on me.

“So,” she said, casual as sin, “are you seeing anyone?”

I snorted. “Do I look like I have time to see anyone?”

“You have time to grade spelling tests and alphabetize your spice rack.”

“I have Liam.”

“He goes to sleep, doesn’t he?”

“And when would I meet someone?” I said, hands on my hips. “During recess duty? Maybe trade numbers over the juice boxes?”

She gave me a look. “You’re not dead, Lucy. You’redivorced. And that was two years ago. You are allowed to want something for yourself.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re functional,” she corrected. “That’s not the same thing.” She said it with love, which made it worse.

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