Hold On

Ethan liked Merry, but more, Ethan liked Merry for me.

Honestly, there would never be a way to decipher the many varieties of how my life sucked. The suckage of my life was like pi—it went on endlessly.

“Yeah,” was all I could say, because my son was right.

Ethan stared at me.

Then, without warning, he leveled me.

“You need a boyfriend.”

I did a slow blink with the addition of a head jerk.

“It’s, like…totally crazy you don’t already have one,” Ethan continued. “All my friends think so and I do too.”

“Uh…” I pushed out, but Ethan was far from done.

“You’re, like, the coolest mom on the planet. I have to dole out sleepovers ’cause all the guys wanna come over here.” He gestured to the TV with his controller. “They can’t believe you play video games with me. Brendon’s mom only lets him play video games for half an hour a day. That’s totally crazy. And she’d never play with him. No way.”

“Perhaps she doesn’t have your momma’s awesome eye–hand coordination,” I teased, lifting the controller in my hands.

“No. She’s just got a stick up her butt,” Ethan returned.

“Kid,” I said quietly, liking he was sweet and sharp but not ever wanting him to be nasty. “Be cool.”

“It’s true,” he replied. “Thirty minutes, Mom? That’s just mean. And Everest’s mom lets him eat sweets, get this, only on a birthday. His or his sister’s or his mom’s or dad’s, and it’s only ever cake. They have broccoli every night. Broccoli looks gross, smells gross, and tastes gross. But he has it, like, every night. He says he reckons if that keeps up, he’s gonna turn into a broccoli.”

At this news, I could see why Ethan’s sleepovers were popular; I always laid out a spread for his friends. And I wasn’t certain we’d ever had broccoli in our house since the day he was born.

I smiled at him, but the truth of it was, I should make my kid eat more broccoli and green beans and shit like that, and less Pringles, Oreos, and M&M’s.

I wondered what Peggy would do if she ever learned how bad I let my kid eat.

Shit, maybe I should take a turn down the veggie aisle, and not just to pick up wonton wrappers for those sausage things I liked to make during football games.

“See why they wanna come here?” he asked me. “Because you dress cool and act cool and you don’t make us put our pop cans on coasters and stuff. And if the Xbox acts up, you know how to get back there and wiggle the right cables to get it working. Teddy’s mom makes us wait until his dad gets home because she doesn’t know anything about the TV, at all. I mean, what kinda guy, kid or grown-up, wouldn’t wanna be with a lady who’s cool like you?”

God, he was going to make me cry and I wasn’t sure my tear ducts even worked anymore. They’d dried up after Lowe fucked me over. If the waterworks turned on again because my kid was being all kinds of sweet, it could be catastrophic.

In other words, I had to put a stop to this immediately.

In an effort to do that, I warned, “You’re earning me exceeding my quota of gooey this week.”

He turned fully to me, and I realized he was being very serious, or more serious than I’d realized he was being (and I’d already figured he was being serious).

He had something to say that meant something to him.

This meant I needed to shut up and listen.

“Well, whatever. Be gooey, I don’t care,” he declared. “But I’m not gonna be here forever, Mom. Five years, I’m gonna have my license and be on the football team. That means practice after school and conditioning and swimming on the weekends. And I’ll have a babe and I’ll need to take her out. I’ll be gone a lot. Then what are you gonna do?”