Page 50 of When It's Us
“That sounds like a compliment,” I say, flicking a glance in her direction. “Careful, California. We might become friends.”
I shoot her a grin, and she gives me one right back, but as I look away, I can’t help but feel a little disappointed. And I’m not sure what to do with that.
Ginger
Themoonlightsparklesonthe water, getting darker as it reaches the shore, and the crackle of the fire is soothing. The stars look so bright out here without any light pollution, and the smell of pine combined with the cricket song makes it feel like another world.
Even during tourist season, Napa isn’t busy by bigger city standards. Sure, it’s still pretty rural, with a lot of countryside. At this time of night, though, on this stretch of Oregon lakeshore, sitting in front of the fire Hutch built before heading off to grab blankets and a couple of bottles of water, it’s peaceful in a way that’s hard to describe.
Maybe it’s because my beach excursions these days include two rowdy six-year-olds, one who inevitably wants to be in the water, and one who wants to lounge on the blanket with a comic book. If I had a dollar for every time I’ve wished I could clone myself to do both at once, I’d be a millionaire.
Trips like this—or a one-day outing to a crowded California beach in our case—usually end up with someone crying, and I hate to admit that many times it’s been me. I’d wait until the boys were strapped into their car seats—if it was a particularly bad day and I couldn’t hold the tears back long enough for the drive, or until wewere home, both boys bathed and in bed so I could take a bath and cry in peace.
There’s a lot about being a mom that I love, but being asinglemom is a whole other beast and comes with a completely new set of challenges. In the beginning, I struggled a lot—there were a lot of late-night baths for the first couple of years, usually with a glass of wine or a beer. Those years were hard as hell.
Eventually, we got into a routine with daycare and my job, the boys visiting Peter every Tuesday and then every other weekend. It was such a change from pre-divorce me, coming home to get dinner ready, then Peter cleaning up while I threw in some laundry. Back then, we generally tag-teamed bathtime every night.
Ever since the twins were born, I’d immersed myself in being the best mom I could be while still trying to maintain some semblance of a personal life. A year after Peter and I split, I’d gone on a few dates, but nothing that blew my mind. There weren’t many men out there willing to take on a single mom with twins under two. Not that I could blame them. It’s a lot. I’d never really thought I was lonely.
Back then, right after the divorce and for the next two years, I’d had Wren. Sure, she’d been busy with her own life. She’d had a successful career as an equine veterinarian and a relationship with her now ex, Derek. Still, she’d always made time for Margarita Mondays and swimming with the boys on the weekends.
When she moved back home to Montana and reconnected with Hank, I was happy for her—Iamhappy for her. But it made me further realize how much of myself I’ve had to sacrifice to give my boys the kind of life I want for them.
My wants and needs have never seemed very important in light of what my boys need. So, while I’m only one person, it’s never stopped me from trying to give my boys everything they need.
After a while, things sort of evolved into the life I have now. And sometimes that is downright exhausting. I feel like a shit mother for even thinking that. I should be able to do it all. Ishouldn’t feel lonely. Or maybe it’s okay to feel lonely, as long as I don’t lose sight of the most important thing. Which are those boys. My life isn’t just about me anymore.
I’m so lost in thought that I don’t even notice Hutch standing above me until he drapes a blanket over my shoulders and offers me a bottle of water.
Grabbing the blanket and closing it around me with one hand, I take the water with my other. “Thank you.”
Hutch nods and folds his long frame to sit next to me, the crinkle of a bag of marshmallows pulling my attention. He lays a long metal skewer at his side, then uncaps his water and leans a forearm on his bent knee, tipping his water back with the other hand.
He reaches over and picks up the marshmallows, tearing the bag open and resting it between his thighs. Then he picks up the roasting stick and takes the marshmallow out of the bag, sliding it onto the stick.
“You want one?” he asks, flicking his glance in my direction.
I reach over and pluck a marshmallow from the bag between his thighs, his eyes tracking the movement. I straighten up and then take a bite, my eyes never leaving his.
He runs his tongue along his bottom lip, and I can’t believe how badly I want to lean over and taste him.
“You’re not gonna roast it?”
I shake my head. I love marshmallows but never roast them, even when the boys do. “I never do.”
“Not even for s’mores?”
“Nope,” I say, chewing. Although I can’t remember the last time I actually sat down and made a s’more. Probably last summer when Wren invited me and the boys out to his place. Even then, I don’t think I ever made one. I was too worried about making sure the boys had enough bug repellent and that they were warm enough around the fire.
“That’s some serial killer shit right there,” he murmurs, deadpan, sticking his marshmallow close to the coals, and I snort out a laugh. The corners of his eyes crinkle when he chuckles lightly.
“Says the man who eats dill pickle everything,” I toss back, and he grins over at me.
We fall into an easy silence—me nibbling my marshmallow while he roasts his to a perfect golden brown. He peels off the top layer and pops it into his mouth, then casually sticks the gooey center back into the fire. When he licks his lips and then a bit of marshmallow from his thumb, I have to look away.
Why is that so sexy?
He does it again—twice—with the same slow precision. It’s ridiculous, but watching him eat melted sugar has become my new favorite thing.
