I clock a solid twenty minutes at the party, practically choking on my virgin mojito every time the door opens.
But I’m determined to make the rounds, to pretend everything’s totally normal, and I’m carefree and cheerful about Mark’s birthday instead of terrified my daughter’s sperm donor will come busting through the door demanding explanations.
Austin eases my mind a little, catching my arm on my way out the door to murmur quiet assurances they’ve got an eye on Walter Grassnab. There’s no evidence yet, but he’s a person of interest, and that’s enough to have cops prowling the resort tonight.
The game room is less than two hundred yards away, and I tow Libby across the lawn toward a cedar-sided structure marked Cottonwood Cabin. I’m breathless as we jog the paved path with the sun sinking behind us into a candy floss nest of clouds.
“Ow. Mom, you’re squeezing my hand.”
“Sorry, baby.” I loosen my grip and smile down at her. “Did you have fun at the party?”
“It was good,” she says. “I like Grandma Bootie.”
“Who?”
“Mark’s mom,” she says. “She says all the kids at the preschool call her Grandma Bootie.”
“Oh. That’s—sweet.”
I ignore the painful stabbing in the center of my heart. Libby and my mother aren’t close. It’s tough to forge a relationship with a woman who refers to you as “Chelsea’s little accident.” Not that Lib’s ever heard that—I’ve made damn sure of it—but it goes without saying theirs isn’t a tender connection.
But Mark’s mom is different. Warm and sweet and welcoming, she pulled me into a big hug before Bree had even finished introducing us. “Bree’s told me so much about you,” Betty exclaimed as she released me and smiled so big I could see her molars. “We’ve been chatting for months about the party, so I got to hear all about how you two got together.”
So, Bree, not Mark, told his mom about me. I shouldn’t be surprised, or even disappointed. At least I’m not the only person he shuts out.
Libby’s voice breaks through my noisy haze of uncertainty. “I love my owl,” she says as she hugs it to her chest.
“He’s a great owl.” I push open the big wooden door and step into the foyer. The space is warm and bright, filled with children’s laughter and the smell of popcorn.
Libby bounces beside me, revving her engine before she jets off toward the snack bar. She’s still clutching my hand, so I stumble along in her wake. “Mom, can I have cotton candy? Or Skittles? I need—”
“You don’t need any more sugar.” I reel her in and redirect her toward a copper arrow marked “game room.” We pass another mom being yanked along by sticky-faced twin toddlers, and we share a smile of solidarity.
“Where do you think we’ll find the ball pit?” I ask Lib.
“This way!” Her gleeful enthusiasm lets some of the tension leak from my shoulders. As much as I liked the party, it’s good to escape the dread of running into Walter Grassnab.
We turn down a corridor and keep following the copper signs. Libby’s buzzing with energy, courtesy of the massive slab of chocolate cake she gulped at the party. So much for an early bedtime.
“Maybe after the ball pit we get cotton candy?” she asks.
Gotta admire the kid’s persistence. “No dice, kiddo. You already had cake.”
“But there’s still room in the sweets chamber of my tummy.”
A delicate flutter under my breastbone reminds me these are Mark’s words, Mark’s influence on my little girl. Or maybe it’s the reminder that he’s let us into his world, at least a little.
We round the corner into a room humming with activity. Arcade games beep and buzz as kids scamper around us shouting with excitement. There’s a fierce game of foosball happening on the other side of the room, and opposite that is the holy grail. The ball pit we’ve heard so much about. It’s teeming with plastic balls in red and green and blue, a rainbow-hued pool of pure joy. A pre-schooler with a buzz cut squeals and leaps like he’s jumping into a swimming pool.
“Whoa,” Libby says.
“No kidding. Pretty nice, huh?”
“I wish we could live here forever.”
“Here in this game room? Seems like it would be hard to sleep.”
“Mom.” She rolls her eyes, giving me a glimpse of the teenager she’ll be before I know it. “With Mark. I think we should live with Mark forever.”
There’s that twinge again, twin darts of hope and trepidation pinning my heart like thumbtacks.
Don’t get ahead of yourself. You’ve made that mistake before.
I’m giving myself this silent pep talk when a pigtailed girl maybe a year younger than Lib bounds over sporting purple cowboy boots and a huge smile that showcases a missing front tooth. “I’m Tia, what’s your name?”
“I’m Libby,” my daughter replies, fingers still clutching mine. “Do you live here?”
“No, we’re on vacation,” Tia says. “Do you want to play?”
“Okay.” Libby looks up at me with hope-filled eyes. “Mom, can I?”
“Go for it. Have fun.” Lord knows she’s due for some peer interaction.
“Come on.” Tia grabs my daughter’s hand and off they go, skipping toward the ball pit. There’s a teenager with a whistle around his neck standing guard at the edge of it, but I move closer anyway so I’m right there if she needs me.
“She’s adorable.”
I turn to see Mark’s mother approaching, her friendly smile arched wide across her pretty features. “So smart for her age,” she adds. “She counted to twenty for me in both English and Spanish.”
“That sounds like Libby,” I tell her. “Thank you for the owl, by the way.”
“Don’t mention it. I’m just tickled Mark’s opened himself up to something new.”
I’m not sure if she means me or Libby or relationships in general, but I nod like it’s true. “He’s a terrific guy. So supportive these last couple weeks.”
Betty’s face creases with concern. “Bree shared some of what’s been happening to you. I’m so sorry.”
There it is again. It’s Bree who’s told her about me, not Mark. Has he even said a word?
“Do you and Mark talk often?” I ask cautiously.
“Oh, every week. Such a good boy, always calling to ask what’s happening in my life.”
“And to share what’s happening in his?”
She cocks her head, bemused. “Well, now. He did say he won ten dollars at poker night.”
“That’s—something.”
“It’s so nice he’s made friends,” she continues, turning her gaze back out over the ball pit where Libby’s poised to leap. “Mark always did like being part of a family, part of a community.”
I file that information away in the brain folder that contains surprisingly few facts about Mark. It’s embarrassing how little I know about him.
“He’s been terrific with Libby,” I tell her. “Very protective.”
“He gets that from Cort. Not much of a father figure, but hell-bent on supporting his kids the best way he knew how. Mostly with money, I guess.”
Yet another tidbit of information to tuck into my file, along with what I’ve picked up from Bree. How is it possible I’ve learned none of this from Mark himself?
“I hope it’s okay I told Libby to call me Grandma Bootie,” she says, glancing back to me. “I didn’t want to overstep, but it’s what all the children call me.”
“I think it’s wonderful,” I say. “Lib already adores you.”
Betty smiles. “She invited me to come meet Long Long Peter. Said we could have a tea party with you and Mark and Weird Owl Yankovic.”
“That’s Libby,” I say fondly. “Always the gracious hostess.”
“She has excellent manners. You should be very proud.”
I smile as I watch my daughter usher a smaller child in front of her in line, making sure he’s steady on his feet before she takes her place. “I got pretty lucky.”
“It’s not luck. I work with kids for a living, and I know good parenting when I see it.”
Something warm flickers in the center of my chest, surprising me with an accompanying pinprick of tears. I blink hard so Betty won’t see. “Thank you.”
She pats my arm and softens her voice. “Believe me, I know. It’s hard being a single mom.”
“Hardest thing I’ve ever done,” I agree, overwhelmed by the urge to spill my guts to this woman I don’t know at all.
But I do know her, in a way. We’re both part of the struggling single moms club, even though we’re at different stages of our membership. We know what it’s like to question every choice we make, to wonder constantly if we’re enough.
“It’s rewarding, though,” I add so she doesn’t think I’m ungrateful. “Gratifying to know you can raise a child on your own without any help from anyone.”
She nods thoughtfully. “I admire you,” she says. “I’m not sure I could have done it without support from Cort and—well, from my other friends over the years.”
I know from the way she says friends she means boyfriends. There, that’s a tidbit Mark’s shared with me, something I’ve squirreled away in my file of personal information. I touch Betty’s hand, aware of the self-conscious note in her voice.
“I think maybe it’s harder with boys,” I say. “A friend of mine has two—nine and thirteen—and she’s constantly worried about whether they’ve got enough male role models.”
Betty’s smile warms with appreciation. “That’s true,” she says. “You always worry you’re not enough for them.”
“I feel that way, too,” I admit. “All the time. But at least with a daughter, I can relate. I remember how hard the social stuff is, and we can talk about being a girl and what kind of changes she’ll go through as she gets older. If there’s anything I don’t know, I’ve got a whole tribe of girlfriends to be surrogate moms.”
“It is different with boys.” There’s an unmistakable wistfulness in her voice. “I did my best with Mark, tried to give him role models where I could.”
“You did an amazing job.” I reach over and squeeze her hand. “He’s a great guy, and he really admires you.”
Tears glitter in the corners of her eyes. “Thank you, dear.”
I let my gaze drift out over the ball pit, and I watch my daughter, my happy, well-adjusted, sweet daughter. How would she be different with a father figure in the picture?
My imagination floods with images of Mark and Libby together, discussing the merits of donuts or singing silly songs in the car. Longing, sharp and intense, pinches the center of my chest. I want that. I shouldn’t, but I do, and I’m not sure how much longer I can fight it.
Betty’s gone quiet beside me, and I try to think of something else I can share. Something to let her know I’m right there with her in questioning my choices as a single mom.
“I do sometimes worry how the whole paternity issue complicates things.” I hesitate there, not sure how much Bree has shared about my situation, but positive Betty can relate on some level. “A kid deserves privacy, obviously, but there’s a point where it’s important to talk openly about the biological father and how—”
“Oh my God.” Betty grips my arm, eyes wide as nickels, and she stares at me in amazement. “He told you.” Her eyes fill with tears. “He loves you.”
I watch her lip quiver as I try to make sense of what’s happening. “What?”
The slow smile spreading over her face tells me these are happy tears, but I don’t understand what I’m missing. “I’m almost positive you’re the first person he’s ever told,” she says. “To be honest, I wasn’t sure how much he knew. I always hoped Cort finally talked to him about it, but he never wanted to talk to me, so I just let him be.”
There’s a buzzing in the back of my brain, a nervous hum of uncertainty. I’m not even sure we’re having the same conversation. “I don’t—”
“Oh, sweetheart—I didn’t mean to scare you.” Her smile is so kind that I’m tempted to clam up. To just stand here basking in this motherly affection. “It’s clear you feel the same way, or I wouldn’t have said anything. I’m just so tickled you’ve cracked his armor.”
She turns away and swipes at a tear that leaks from one eye. She’s watching Libby now, trying to regain her composure while I try to figure out what the hell I’ve missed.
“Betty, I don’t—” I stall out there, but she must hear something in my voice because she turns back to face me.
And then her smile falters. “Oh.” She lifts a hand to her mouth. “Oh, dear.”
“There’s been a misunderstanding,” I offer feebly, the understatement of the year.
“I thought—when you said—” Her brow furrows as she retraces her steps through our conversation. “You mentioned paternity questions. I just assumed Mark told you about Cort.”
“No.” I shake my head, wishing more than anything he had. That I didn’t have to stand here facing his mother, acknowledging that I’m not as close to her son as she thought I was. As I thought I was.
A flicker of understanding sparks to a flame in the back of my brain. So there’s a question about Mark’s paternity? Okay, so…it happens. I mean, I guess I knew he had secrets, though this is a bigger one than a fear of spiders or an embarrassing childhood nickname.
Betty’s still looking confused, so I hurry to explain. “Libby,” I finally manage. “I was talking about Libby. I—we—we’re dealing with some complicated paternity stuff with her right now, and I thought maybe you’d heard something from Bree or Mark or—”
“No.” Betty shakes her head. “He hasn’t said a word.”
To either of us, sister.
I don’t say that, of course, but it’s dawning on me how much Mark’s shut me out. How many chances he’s had to open up to me, and how he’s passed them up at every turn.
Betty’s gaze shifts just over my shoulder and her face goes two shades paler. “Oh, no.”
I pivot slowly, already knowing what I’m going to see. Who I’m going to see. How long has he been there, and what did he hear?
“Mark,” Betty says, reaching for his arm as she looks up at his stony features. “Sweetheart, I think I may have just stepped in it.”
“What?” He looks from her to me and back again, the crease deepening between his brows. “What are you talking about?”
“Paternity,” I say softly, still not sure what’s happening here. “Yours, apparently.”
Slowly, one icy inch at a time, his expression turns to granite.
“I’m sorry,” Betty says. “I thought you’d told her. Before he died, I thought your father would have—”
“No.” Mark bites out that lone syllable less like the answer to a question and more like he’s twisting the top onto a soda bottle threatening to fizz over. His jaw is clenched so tightly I see muscles twitching at his hairline.
Betty glances at me, then touches his arm again. “Do you want me to—”
“No,” he says again, backing away as he rakes a hand through his hair. “I need to—I have to—dammit.”
He turns and lumbers away, hands clenched at his sides. I’ve never seen his shoulders bunched so tight.
“Go,” Betty says, though she doesn’t have to say it. I’m already moving after him. “He needs one of us, and I don’t think it’s me.”
I’m not sure Mark needs anyone, or wants anyone at the moment, but when he looks over his shoulder and sees me, he slows his pace.
There’s a moment of hesitation, and I swear I’ve seen it before. Not with Mark, but with deer on the side of the highway. That moment of choice, to turn and run back into the woods, or to leap out in front of an oncoming car.
He nods once. “Come on.” He trudges away like a man headed to execution, expecting me to follow.
And of course, I do.