11. Ash

ELEVEN

Well, taking Sunday's son to the art supply store isn't exactly what I had in mind this morning. But the kid is practically vibrating with excitement as we drive through the busy streets, heading downtown. I glance over at Wade. Obviously, I've seen him a few times, but never in such close proximity. The similarities between him and Sunday are crazy. He has her honey-colored eyes and slender nose with freckles over the bridge. He's close to thirteen, I imagine, considering the occasional cracking in his voice indicating he's starting the change.

"Thanks again for doing this!" He smiles at me, and I chuckle.

"No worries, bud. I didn"t have anything else to do, and, like I said, I need some new supplies." It's a lie. I canceled a date, and Janie always buys my supplies wholesale, but whatever, he doesn't need to know that.

"Mom's just so busy," Wade sighs softly. "And when she isn't, she's tired or recovering from a seizure. Like she should be doing now," he mutters the last part. "Plus, I know rideshares aren"t cheap, and she hates the bus."

"So, does she not drive at all?" I ask as I whip into the drive-thru at the coffee shop. I'm going to need no less than eight shots to get through the day.

Wade shakes his head. "She has to be seizure-free for so long before her doctor will sign off on allowing her to get a license. I remember when I was younger, she tried to keep track for a while, but she never made it long enough, and Josh constantly made her feel bad when she'd have to start over, so she gave up trying." It isn't lost on me the amount of venom he holds in his tone when he says Sunday's ex-husband's name. I ask him if he wants a drink and raise a brow when he says water, but I do as he asks.

"Yeah, some stepdads can suck, or so I'm told."

"Josh wasn't my stepdad," Wade states firmly while reaching into his pocket. "Or anything besides Mom"s ex-husband. I don't have a dad of any kind besides my mom. And she's better than any man would've been, anyway. Here." He hands me two crumpled dollars after I take our drinks.

"Bud, it's fine." I chuckle softly. "I got this."

"I can buy my own drinks. Mom gave me enough to cover the supplies and a couple of extra dollars." He stuffs the bills into my cup holder.

"That's great, you know," I say after a silent beat. "That you have such an amazing, strong mom."

"She is," Wade nods. "Mom's the strongest person I know. And I wish–" He trails off as he looks down at his water bottle.

"Wish what?" I urge him gently, not wanting to pressure him.

"I wish she didn't always have to be so strong. She's so tired. It'll be okay, though. Things will get easier in a couple of years. I'll be able to work and drive for her, so she won't have to worry so much." My heart tightens as I remember saying those exact words to my mother when I was fifteen. I found her in the bathroom, curled up on the floor, sobbing while using the bathroom fan and shower as noise to hide her cries. She was exhausted, beyond exhausted. I think at that point, she was working over a hundred hours a week between her multiple jobs, and Indy had been sick with a chest cold. I remember pulling her from the laying position on our old peel-and-stick bathroom tile.

"Mom!" I shake my inconsolable mother by the shoulders as she continues to cry. "Mom, please!" I choke out, not knowing how to fix whatever's happening. "What's wrong?"

"I'm so tired," she croaks out, her head hanging low. "I… I can't do this anymore, Ashy, baby… I can't be everywhere I need to." Pulling my tiny mom to me, I let her cry into my chest while I stroke her hair, trying hard to think of a solution to her problem.

"What if I started doing schoolwork at home?" I suggest softly. "I only have a year before I can get my GED. I could stay home with Indy, and I'll have a license in a few months. I'll be able to go to the store and stuff while you get some sleep. And I could get a side job, so you don"t have to work so much, okay? Please, Mom, don't cry. You know I'll take care of you and Indy. I always will, I promise."

Pullinginto the parking space in front of the art supply store, I turn off my car and take a breath as I rub my chest.

"Wade," I turn to look at the kid. Shoulders hunched, knee bobbing, and brows drawn together. What he feels, I can't say it's wrong. It's good that he wants to help his mom. But that constant panic running through him will only eat him alive, and I hate seeing it in someone else. He looks at me with a stare that tells me he doesn't want to have this conversation, and I give him a smirk.

"So, I know that your mom gave you money and blah blah blah. But come on, let me get you some stuff that'll make you the envy of your class." Wade's eyes brighten and his smile grows so wide as he opens his door, too excited to wait in the car any longer.