Chapter 6

"Ben invited me to sleep over at his house," Matteo says a couple of hours later, grabbing my hand and tugging lightly, drawing my stare away from where Pascal is talking to Delaney.

Who's not his girlfriend.

Which makes me feel...

Something that I'm not ready for, something that's scary and intense and...just scary.

I inhale softly, shove the thoughts out of my head.

My life is Matteo.

My life is Matteo.

Be happy, baby girl. Live a big, beautiful life for our son.

Dave's voice in my mind has my eyes stinging, throat clogging.

God, I miss him.

The man he was and all that we weren't able to create together.

And all that he missed out on, all that Matteo and I lost too.

It's been three years since we lost Dave, but truthfully, he was lost to Matteo and me before that. Fucking cancer. It kills the joy in people's lives, sucks the fun from lighthearted moments, shadows the happy memories, clings to everything that was remotely pleasant like flesh-eating bacteria, slowly eroding any contentment.

Now, after that long battle Dave fought and I did my best to help him through, I often struggle to remember my husband on our wedding day, on our honeymoon, when he held my hand in the delivery room as I brought Matteo into this world. Instead I remember a different hospital room. A different man. A different body. A different lifetime.

And sometimes, I wonder what Matteo remembers.

Does he have any of the joy of hikes and piggyback rides?

Or does he just remember the exhaustion pulling at Dave's limbs, the pain he tried to hide, the sadness burned into our home?—

"Mom?"

I grind my teeth together, blink the past away. "Yeah, honey?"

"Ben invited me to sleep over at his house tonight." He bounces on his toes, body wiggling in excitement. "Can I, Mom? Can I please? It's not a school night and his parents say it's okay and Alex and Roxie are coming too."

"Let me look at the calendar, baby," I say, pulling out my phone, mostly trying to delay.

He's never been to a sleepover.

What if he gets scared?

What will I do without him at home?

Alone. With my thoughts.

I shudder.

Matteo opens his mouth and I know he's going to ask me again—in that sweet, pleading voice that never fails to melt my heart.

I know it'll be near on impossible for me to resist him.

I can say no.

I'm a mom—saying no can be my superpower.

It's just...I like it when I can tell him yes.

He's had too many noes already.

No, we can't go to the park, Daddy isn't feeling well. No, we can't play music or watch that show, Daddy is sleeping. No, we can't go to that birthday party, I have to work and there's no one to pick you up from daycare and take you. No, you can't play hockey right now, we need to take care of Dad (and it's too expensive with the crippling medical debt because our freaking country has made healthcare a business instead of a right).

And too many more.

So, I want to say yes.

I also can't—however—with good conscience, subject another parent to the torture of a sleepover without doing them the courtesy of at least checking with them first.

"The calendar is clear," I say and then add quickly before he can continue with the pleading, "I need to talk to Sara and Mike, honey," I rub a hand over the shorn locks that are the result of his most-recent haircut (bye-bye curls and hello clean-cut military that reminds me of a certain sexy security chief I want to lick all over).

I freeze, heart suddenly in my throat.

Because that's not something I've felt?—

Well, that's not my life now.

Matteo scowls, luckily, pulling me from my panic, and I settle my hand on his shoulder, squeeze lightly. "And anyway," I say, "if they do say yes, we'll have to go home and pack your bag first, right?" He nods. "So, I need to get all the deets."

He sighs, shaking his head like the way too mature seven-year-old he's become. "No one says deets anymore, Mom."

"Well, I do," I tell him then nudge him forward. "I see some trash on the ground over there. Can you go throw that away and make sure we've left the field clean? I'll talk to Ben's mom and dad." Another nod, this one filled with excited puppy-esque energy (probably because Ben's parents—Sara and Mike—are heading my way, and he's likely to get a positive response to his sleepover request in the next few minutes). Then he's off, sprinting toward the stray napkin that's blowing across the grass.

I watch him scoop it up, run it to the garbage can, then turn toward another piece of trash.

Not doing the bare minimum.

Nope, my kid cares and excels and always goes the extra mile.

God, I love him.

"You've raised a great kid," Mike says, coming to stand next to me.

"The best," I murmur, forcing my eyes away from my heart that's running around outside my body and turning to face him and Sara, who are looking on as Ben and Roxie and the others join in and I know the field is going to be clean in no time. "But that's just him. He's the best."

Sara nudges my shoulder with hers. "And maybe he has a great mom."

This.

This right here.

This is why I found myself pulled into the Gold family. Because they're fucking nice. Because they're the hype men (and women) who are supposed to be what family is.

Not tearing down. Not shitting on each other.

Just...respect and love and the supportive backbone when mine threatens to fail.

Not that there isn't shit-giving.

That's hockey.

But it's not mean, and it doesn't hurt, and?—

God, my eyes are stinging again.

I blow out a silent breath, nudge Sara's shoulder back, letting her know I hear her and I appreciate the sentiment, and then I focus on the present and the current crisis in front of me.

Because that's all I can do.

One step forward at a time.

"So," I say, "I hear my son is trying to get himself an invite to your house."

Mike chuckles, shakes his head.

Sara grins. "I think my kids were the ringleaders," she admits. "Because between Ben and his sisters, half the team's kids are spending the night at our house." A roll of her eyes. "All of which to say, Matteo is more than welcome to stay, so long as you're okay with it."

My heart squeezes. "That sounds like...a lot."

"Well," Sara says with a shrug. "I figure if we're going to be tortured with a sleepover, we might as well get it over all at once, rather than experience the torment of giggling girls and loudly played video games and hours and hours of hide and seek over three separate weekends."

Maybe I shouldn't let Matteo go.

Because I would have to reciprocate, right?

And that sounds like...

Torture.

But even as I think that, I'm already saying, "If you're sure, then I know that he'd love to join in?—"

"Yes!"

All three of our heads whip to the side, see that Matteo, Ben, Alex, and Roxie are standing there with huge grins on their faces.

"Sleepover!" they yell, running off.

"Right," Mike mutters to Sara. "I think we'll just let them run that off for a while. Maybe then we'll actually get some sleep tonight."

"Good idea," she says, lifting her fist for him to bump before glancing back at me. "Do you want to head out and enjoy your free night while we let them tire themselves out? We can swing by your place on the way home and get his stuff."

No, I don't want to leave my baby here without me.

But...I also don't have a reason to stay.

I gird my loins, thank them in advance, and make sure they have my number and address correct, and then I corral my kiddo into a hug and a quiet moment to let him know he can call me, no matter the hour, and to clean up after himself and treat Mr. and Mrs. Stewart with respect, and to be nice to his friends and?—

He sighs. "I'll be on my best behavior, Mom."

"Of course you will," I murmur, allowing myself one more hug before I step back, wave to Sara and Mike and Brit, who's joined them, apparently in no hurry to continue on with her evening either.

But I manage to tear myself away from my son, manage to walk my ass to my car, manage to turn on the ignition and drive home.

Where I busy myself packing him everything he might possibly need—and likely far too much—for his first sleepover.

He shows up just as I'm tucking his toothbrush into his backpack and he's so excited and in such a hurry to get back into the SUV with his friends that I barely get more than a drive-by hug and a, "Bye, Mom!" before he's tearing off down the driveway, clambering back into the SUV, and slamming the door shut behind him.

God.

My eyes, they burn.

But I manage to hold it together as I wave to Sara and Mike, as I watch the SUV pull out of the driveway.

As my baby disappears out of sight.

I slam the door behind me, wrench the lock closed, and sink to the floor.

Then I give into those tears.

A long while later—and after a long cry because my baby is growing up and I can't stop time—I've gotten it back together.

And...maybe I'm sort of enjoying myself.

The quiet and being able to watch whatever trash I want to watch without having to constantly listen for Matteo coming down the hall and having to pause the TV (because, heaven forbid, he see any of the show I'm consuming). Being able to lounge in the bath without him knocking on the door and asking if we can play basketball.

Because—of course—I'm going to play basketball. Always. Any freaking time.

Take that opportunity. Hold those moments close.

You never know when they'll be gone.

But when he's off having the time of his life—and I know that thanks to Sara texting me pictures of the madness (and a Silly String) battle—I can take a little bit of time to enjoy the first "Me Time" I've had since...

Well, since Dave got sick.

I exhale and toss the remote to the side, glancing at the picture of the three of us I keep on the nightstand, and feel that familiar pang.

It's just...not as sharp as it used to be.

I'll always miss my late husband, but so much has changed since we lost him.

I'm different, and capable of more than I ever thought.

And...I'm okay.

Really, really okay.

Maybe that's why, for the first time since that picture was taken, I find myself lifting the frame from the distressed wood of my nightstand and carrying it close to my chest as I pad through the living room and set it on the shelf.

With my other memories.

With the past.

I exhale, intending to turn back for the bedroom, intending to text Sara, letting her know—again—that I'll come, no matter the hour, and head off to sleep.

And that's when there's a heavy knock on my front door.

I jump, knocking the frame over, heart in my throat.

"Ignore it," I whisper.

But some part of me can't.

So, I walk over, peer through the window, and?—

My heart catches.