Yes, and one of his boys—-or was it Braden?—-was going through a stage when he’d eat nothing but simple white carbs. Bagels, cereal, buttered pasta . . .
Funny that she doesn’t remember whether it was his son or her own, but she clearly remembers sitting across from Rick in a corner booth crammed with kids and crumbs, talking endlessly about parenting challenges she might have discussed with the other moms if they weren’t so cliquey, or with her own mom if she were still alive.
When she’d become a mother a decade after losing her own, Rowan was surprised to find herself grieving the loss all over again and feeling lonelier than she had in years. Then Rick came along, and he was interested in her day--to--day existence because he shared it. He actually cared about potty training technique and transitioning away from naps and training wheels . . .
When she discussed those things with Jake, he always seemed to be either disinterested or oppositional. “Why do you bother asking me for my opinion if you don’t want to listen to what I have to say?” he’d ask.
“I didn’t ask for your opinion. You offered it.”
“They’re my kids, too.”
“I know. But it’s fine. I’m the one who’s with them most of the time, so I’ll deal with it.”
And she would—-often with plenty of helpful input from Rick Walker.
And yes, she did think he was good--looking back then. Not conventionally tall, dark, and handsome like Jake. But Rick had warm brown eyes and a quick grin and was hilariously funny, and so sweet and caring with his kids—-and with her kids, and with her. He was always complimenting her on her laugh, her parenting skills, her hair—-especially her hair.
“I’ve always had a thing for redheads . . .”
The comment hadn’t seemed particularly inappropriate at the time. She’d been too caught up in her infatuation, wondering what it would be like to kiss him, and then one day . . .
She knew.
How exhilarating to realize he’d been longing for the same forbidden connection all those times they were together. How satisfying to indulge blatant desire after all those years of keeping her emotions and behavior in check.
And how utterly foolish, and selfish, and sinful, and terrifying.
They size each other up across the table.
What’s supposed to come next?
An accusation, she believes. But the words she’d rehearsed refuse to form on her lips, so she busies herself shrugging out of her coat and arranging her paper napkin on her lap. Meanwhile, he starts to talk. And talk. He doesn’t sound anxious, but maybe he is, because he won’t shut up and give her a moment to gather her thoughts and her nerve.
He’s telling her how happy he is that she wanted to get together, asking her how things are, how everyone has been.
“Jake? The kids? Are they grown up now? They must be.”
“My older two are in college. The youngest is still at home with us.”
“That’s Mickey. You gave him your maiden name, Carmichael, as a first name, and you used to call him Mickey, like they called your dad.”
“We still do, only now it’s shortened to Mick,” she tells him, unnerved. Does he just happen to remember those details? Or did he find them somewhere online?
He must remember. Her father’s nickname wouldn’t have been officially documented in any public record or forum.
“Mick. Rhymes with Rick,” he says.
She never thought of that. She wants to assure him that it’s pure coincidence, and that it has nothing to do with him, but of course he knows that.
He must.
Right?
“How about your kids?”
“None of them are named after me.”
“That’s . . . I didn’t mean that.”
“I know what you meant,” he says, “ but I was thinking about how when Liam was born I really wanted to name him Rick, not just after myself but after my father, but Vanessa didn’t want to because her firstborn was named after her ex and after he left, she couldn’t stand to hear the name. So she didn’t want to name our son after me, I guess because she figured sooner or later, either I’d leave or she’d hate me or maybe both.”