“Stop right there,” I warn, threatening assault with a deadly pen. “I will tell Wilder this weekend. You will get to know your son. But I will not be sleeping with you ever again.”
“Got it. We’ll just keep it at fucking.”
“Are you trying to make me shout at you?” Because, there I go, shouting at him.
Before he can answer, the door bursts open, the bell jingling wildly.
“Mom!” Wilder almost falls in, waving a certificate over his head. “I got star of the week!” he calls, full of excitement.
“That is so great!”
Roman’s presence is secondary as I make my way around the counter to greet my boy. He collides with my thighs, and we hug, my eyes finding Annie’s over his head.
“It even has his photograph,” she points out, her gaze widening a touch as she notices Roman.
“Yeah, but it’s the one Miss Hutchins took on the second day of class,” Wilder says with an unhappy little twist to his mouth. “The one where I couldn’t fake a smile because I felt tricked. I couldn’t believe I had to go back for a whole ’nother year!”
“Thems is the breaks, kiddo.” I ruffle my hand through his hair and try not to glance up at Roman. “Only thirteen or so more years to go.” Guilt pinches in my chest. If I wasn’t such a wuss, he could be taking part at this moment. Instead, he’s a spectator standing on the sidelines.
My fault again.
“But only that many if I go to college?
“Oh, so you are going to give up and come and work at the coffee shop. Should I order the stool so you can reach the sink?”
“No,” Wilder gurgles, pulling the backpack higher on his shoulder.
I look up, my gaze meeting those familiar but older baby blues. The expression he wears makes me want to rub my chest because it feels like it’s bruised. I’ve got to tell Wilder about Roman tonight. Or tomorrow. It would probably be better to give him more than a few hours to digest the news before sending him off to bed to potentially worry or fret. He can be a little cranky after a long week at school. Saturday would be better, definitely. We’ll have all day together. Plenty of time for questions and talking over things . . . except I have my so-called date with Drew in the evening. My thoughts begin to spiral. Maybe Sunday. Yes, Sunday should be the day. But after Sunday comes back to school on Monday.
“Mom.” Wilder tugs at my shirt. “Did you get a call from the school office today?”
“About your certificate?”
“No,” he replies, his tone suddenly careful.
“About what?”
“Nothing. I just asked. Like sometimes, I ask if I can have an ice cream. Or a muffin.”
“Don’t even think about it,” I say, grabbing his shoulder before he scoots away. “Explanation first, snack, not ice cream, later. Why would I have received a call from the school office?”
With a heavy sigh, he slides the strap down his shoulder, dropping his bag to the floor. He unzips it and hands me a piece of paper. “Because this.”
I stare at the science worksheet about the varying states of matter, slightly confused. I mean, it seems he completed it.
Liquids have their own shape. True or False.
Wilder has circled false, and this is marked with a ballpoint check.
Everything in the world is made of matter. True or False.
True. Correct again.
Name a solid.
Ice.
Name a liquid.
Water.
Name a gas.
A fart.
I try very hard not to laugh despite the teacher-drawn unhappy emoji face and the spikily written suggestions of oxygen and steam.
“See, even you think the teacher is wrong.”
“Do I?” I reply, inadvertently giving another little snicker.
“Yes, because everyone knows farts are gas.” And now I don’t know where to look. “I learned that in a book, and now she tells me I have to unlearn it.” His hands rise then fall in a depiction of such futility.
“The teacher? What do you mean she told you to unlearn it?”
“She said we weren’t doing biology, and I had to get my mind out of the gutter. I told her my mind wasn’t in the gutter. It was in the large intestines with the broken-down food and the methane that builds up then shoots out of your butt!”
I hold up my hand, and he halts in his indignation. I raised this child to think for himself but, “Wilder, you only have a few days left of this year. Is fart hill the one you want to die on?”
“But she’s wrong,” he maintains. “And she didn’t make that much of a fuss when Connor Weiland farted in the classroom, and we all thought we really were gonna die!”
“And I suppose you said that to her?” He nods. “And you were sent to the office?”
He nods again. “Because she doesn’t like to be wrong.”