Page 17 of The Write Choice

I attempt to sigh inconspicuously, but from the smile plastered on his face, I can tell I’m not hiding my annoyance very well. I had heard this about Midwesterners, that they are personable and willing to talk to strangers. Strike one, Midwest. I prefer cold, hard, anonymity in large crowds, thank you very much.

I shift Christine a little higher on my hip to hopefully draw his attention to the fact that I have my hands full and need to keep this conversation short. “Yes?”

“Are you Mrs. Conley?” he asks, still smiling.

It’s at that moment that I notice he’s holding a sign that says Conley in big, black letters. He must be the driver Brandon sent to pick us up when we realized the truck delivering our cars got stuck in a snowstorm. I sag with relief. If Christine wasn’t getting heavier and clingier by the minute, I’d hug this man for coming all the way into the airport to find us.

“I am. How did you know?” I ask.

His grin becomes impossibly larger. “Your husband did an excellent job describing you. I’m Tom, and I’ll be driving you to your house. He also mentioned you might need some help with your bags. If you can just point them out for me, I’ll get them for you, and we can be on our way.”

I indicate our bags as they come along the carousel, and Tom lifts them off when they’re within reach. Once we have everything, we follow him out to the parking garage, where he leads us to a sleek-looking van. When I open the door, there is already a car seat and a booster seat installed. Mason gets himself buckled in, and I secure Christine, then sit beside her.

The drive to Leade Park isn’t terribly long, but Christine fully wakes up about halfway through and starts begging for a snack. I stupidly stashed all our bags in the trunk of the van, so I spend most of the drive singing toddler songs about busses and spiders, trying to keep her mind off how hungry she must be.

“Mom?” Mason asks, lifting his headphones off his ears to hear my response.

“Mmm?”

“We’re going to be living in a real house, right? With a yard?”

“We are.” I smile at him, trying to be excited for the kids’ sakes.

“Do you think we can have a swing set in the back yard? And a fire pit where we can roast marshmallows? Oh, and a sandbox?” he asks.

“I want a sandbox,” Christine says thoughtfully.

“Oh, kiddo. It’s a little cold for all that stuff right now,” I say gently, trying to let him down easy.

Mason rolls his eyes. “Not now, Mom. In the summer.”

I don’t want to tell him I don’t know where we’ll be this summer. For all my bravado a few weeks ago, I don’t know if I could be a single mom after this past week. But as I look at all the cookie-cutter houses and manicured lawns passing by us, I’m having a hard time picturing this life for my entire future.

“Maybe, sweetie. We’ll see,” I say, which seems to appease him.

He looks out the window, and instead of matching my melancholy disposition, he starts kicking his legs back and forth and bouncing with excitement. “Mama!” he exclaims. He only calls me Mama when he’s really thrilled about something. “It’s Daddy!”

I twist in my seat to look out the front window and, sure enough, Brandon is standing outside, his hair in a bun high on the back of his head, and wearing my favorite sweater he owns—a forest green, cable-knit sweater that hugs his torso in all the right places and makes him look like he walked out of a pub in Ireland.

I’m not certain about a lot of things right now, but I am one hundred percent sure he picked that sweater on purpose.

But after not laying eyes on him for an entire week, I can’t exactly say I’m complaining.

His hands are shoved in his pockets and his shoulders are hunched against the cold, but when he sees us approaching, his face lights up. He pulls a hand out to wave. Mason already has his seatbelt undone by the time the car pulls into the driveway and parks. I put my hand out to hold him back until the car stops completely, but as soon as it does, Mason is up and out, running toward his dad. Brandon leans down and scoops him up, swinging him around like it’s no great effort to lift his seven-year-old son. He sets Mason on his feet and buries him in a hug.

The scene tugs at my heart, and I can’t look away. Brandon and Mason have always had a special relationship, and even though I missed him this week, I don’t think it quite registered how much Mason missed him, too.

“Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” Christine’s yelling pulls me from the little moment I’m having. I snap open the buckles of her car seat in a rush and pull her over my lap to set her on the ground outside, stepping out just behind her. Brandon kneels on the cold ground and opens his arms for Christine to run into them. He practically crushes her, then plants a bunch of kisses on her chubby cheeks.

He’s still on his knees and holding her when he looks up at me, his hazel eyes heating. I feel the warmth of them as he rakes his gaze over my body as if he’s taking a long drink. I’m suddenly impervious to the cold. My body is on fire.

Holy shit. That didn’t take long.

“There’s my girls,” Brandon says quietly, and though he’s referring to both me and his daughter, I can tell his words aren’t for her. “I missed you.”

I drag my bottom lip through my teeth, and his eyes darken.

“Dad,” Mason groans, drawing the word out. “I’m not a girl.”