“Now, why didn’t I think of that,” Ursula says, smiling up at an embarrassed Kennedy over the top of Wilder’s head.
Hug delivered, Wilder greets me with a shy hug that I drop down to my knee to receive. I squeeze him back doubly tight as he whispers a happy-sounding Dad in my ear.
My heart is full. Fit to burst. The thing floweths over.
Kennedy pretends not to look, busying herself with the old girl, and as I straighten, Wilder proposes to show me around. Time to pretend I’ve never been here before.
“Can I show Dad my bedroom?” he asks Kennedy, pausing at the bottom of a timber staircase. Destination: virgin territory.
This flicker of excitement is probably wrong, but I’m digging it anyway.
“Maybe later,” I answer before she can. “Your mum probably wants a bit of peace and quiet to get dressed for her big . . .” I leave a long enough pause that she can’t miss my cynicism. “Date.”
“Who says I’m not going to dinner like this?” She cocks her hip, daring me to suggest that jeans and a T-shirt aren’t the look for a fancy French restaurant. Or maybe it’s just an opportunity for my gaze to devour her like a last meal.
“What do you reckon, little mate?” I dip my chin, and Wilder lifts his. “Personally, I’d take your mum to dinner wearing a potato sack.”
“A potato sack!” The kid cackles.
“She’s beautiful enough, don’t you think? I reckon people wouldn’t even notice.”
“Yeah.” He turns to her, shooting her an angelic smile. “Yeah, you’re right.”
“Such flattery,” she murmurs sweetly, her attention turning back to me. “It gets you nowhere,” she adds, piqued.
“Oh, I don’t think that’s always true.”
Wilder dips to swipe up a bit of fur from the floor, leaving her free to glare at me.
“Dad, this is Moose.”
“Mouse?” The thing looks to be part rat, part Brillo pad.
“No, Moose!” he says, giggling.
“Please to meet you, Bruce.”
“Moose!” Wilder drags the mutt’s name out, holding her up like the opening scene from The Lion King. I go to shake her paw and almost change my mind as the thing flashes me some razor-sharp teeth, deciding at the last minute to lick my hand instead. “She likes you!”
“’Course she does. What’s not to like about me?” I glance Kennedy’s way as I add, “That was rhetorical.” Especially the mood she’s in, which I reckon is more to do with her date than me. I’d be pretty unenthused if I had to go out with Drew. I can’t say or even think of his name without making it sound like dreary. Dreary Drew. In fact, forget a potato sack. A date with him would be like wearing a hair shirt.
I’m not delusional, which, I suppose, is what all delusionists think. But she can’t keep up the pretence forever. Can she?
Nah, her mood isn’t about me because she can’t possibly know I sabotaged her babysitter plans. And if she does, I want a refund. I mean, it wasn’t hard—I did it right under her nose as she worked today. And I don’t feel bad. I just outbid her. Teenagers are such mercenary fuckers. I especially liked when Grace reminded me that we exist in a free market economy, that she could pretty much charge what she liked for something I wanted. And she did. She charged me through the nose. I almost told her if she was ever in Australia and needed a job, she should give Byron a call. He’d appreciate that kind of ruthlessness, and she’d probably end up being a future salesperson of the year.
Wilder and I eventually settle on the sofa and help Ursula find the right stations for her shows as Kennedy makes her way upstairs. It isn’t long before Drew is on the doorstep. And, of course, I’m the one who greets him.
“G’day, Drew. Lookin’ pretty spiffy, there.”
“Er, thanks. Is Kennedy here?”
“Kennedy?” I lean my shoulder against the doorframe, a sudden case of amnesia setting in as I cast my gaze across the yard, my cock giving a little kick as I remember Wilder saying she watches me through the hedgerow. My sneaky little voyeur. But now is not the time to be concocting plans or smiling blissfully into the middle distance. “Where are my manners.” I stand, a smile stretched across my face. “Come on in.” And doesn’t that make it sound like this is my place? Good, ’cause that’s the vibe I’m going for. Some might call it misdirection. Personally, I prefer to see it as foresight.
“Thanks.”
Ah, but he didn’t mean to thank me because he’s just remembered who I am. And now he’s wondering why I’m here, but he follows me through the house anyway.
“Hey, Wilder, Mrs Kowalski.”
“Hello.” My son gives him a quick wave, and Ursula spares him a nod. Family Feud blares from the TV, so she doesn’t spare any of us much attention.