Page 15 of Razor’s Redemption
"No." The word comes out faster than I intend. "No, I want to do this. I'm just out of practice at being a person instead of a mom, a waitress or a cleaning lady."
"You're all of those things at once."
"I know, but—" I struggle to find the words. "When you're a single mom, everything revolves around your kid. Every decision, every choice, every spare minute. You stop being Daisy and start being Luna's mom. And that's fine, that's what I signed up for. But sometimes I forget there's supposed to be a me underneath all of it."
He's quiet for a moment, navigating a turn. "You ever regret it? Being a mom so young, doing it alone?"
"Never." The answer is immediate, absolute. "Luna is the best thing that ever happened to me. She's the reason I get up every morning, the reason I work two jobs, the reason I keep going when I'm so tired I can barely see straight. I'd do it all over again in a heartbeat."
"Even the part where her father left?"
I think about that. About Jason, the boy I thought I loved at twenty-two, the one who talked about forever and meant it until things got complicated. About the look on his face when I told him I was pregnant, the way he went pale and silent and was gone within the month. No explanation. No goodbye. Just gone.
"Even that," I admit. "Because if he'd stayed, Luna would've grown up watching me settle for someone who didn't really want us. She would've learned that love means begging someone to stay. I'd rather she grow up knowing her mom chose her over everything else."
Razor glances at me again. "She's lucky to have you."
"I'm lucky to have her."
We pull into the parking lot of O'Malley's, a squat brick building with a neon sign in the window and a handful of motorcycles parked out front. It's the kind of bar I used to come to in my early twenties, back when I thought staying out until two AM and nursing cheap beer made me interesting.
God, I was young.
Razor parks and comes around to open my door before I can do it myself. Jason never opened doors, never pulled out chairs, never did any of the small things that show someone's thinking about you.
"Thank you," I say, climbing out.
"You don't have to keep thanking me."
"Sorry, it's—" I stop. "Sorry. I'm apologizing for thanking you. That's ridiculous."
His mouth quirks up at the corner, almost a smile. "Little bit."
We walk inside, and the warmth hits immediately, that particular bar smell of wood, beer and decades of conversation soaked into the walls. It's not crowded, maybe a dozen people scattered across booths and barstools. An old jukebox plays something classic in the corner, Fleetwood Mac or the Eagles, I can't tell.
Razor guides me to a booth in the back with a hand on the small of my back: gentle, barely there, but I feel it like a brand through my coat. We slide into opposite sides, and a waitress appears almost immediately.
She's young, maybe early twenties, with bright red lipstick and a smile that falters slightly when she sees Razor. Her eyes catch on his tattoos, the scar, the way he fills the booth with a presence that's hard to ignore.
"What can I get you?" she asks, voice a little higher than necessary.
"Whatever's on tap is fine," Razor says.
"I'll have a glass of white wine," I add. "Whatever you have is good."
The waitress nods and disappears. I shrug out of my coat, drape it over the back of the booth, and realize Razor is watching me with that same intensity from last night.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing. Just… You look different out of your work uniform."
I glance down at my jeans and the worn sweater I threw on this morning. "Different good or different bad?"
"Different real."
The waitress returns with our drinks before I can figure out how to respond to that. She sets them down, gives Razor one more nervous glance, and leaves.
I take a sip of wine, cheap and slightly sour, exactly what I expected, and try to remember how to do this. How to sit across from a man and have a conversation that isn't about my daughter, taking orders or asking if they want their eggs scrambled or over easy.
