Just as I hang up with Mom, he calls.
“Hi,” I greet him. “Should I order takeout?”
“Nah, I’m having dinner with my parents. You should order something for yourself. Use my credit card. It’s in my office,” he says, clearing his throat. “So, listen, Suzie called.”
My eyes close as I feel the chill of his words sipping through my body. Why is he mentioning his ex-wife? I ask the obvious, “Your Suzie?”
“Yeah,” he clears his throat. “She’s moving back from New York, and her parents want me to help her search for a new place. Since we need to find it soon, my cousin Tyler is helping. I might stay with him tonight.”
I understand that Tyler lives close to the foothills, but why is he staying with him? Hoping I don't sound too needy, I ask, “Are we okay, Randall?”
“What kind of question is that, babe?”
The kind you ask when you barely see your live-in boyfriend and he chooses to spend Sunday with his family searching for a house for his ex, I want to yell, but I don’t.
“I haven’t seen you this weekend. We haven’t been on a date for months. Two more weeks without sex, and I might be re-virginized.”
He laughs. “Leave it to you to make up shit like that. We’re fine. You’ve been busy learning the new social media platforms and making the guys look good even when they suck. I’m trying to figure out a way to make them suck less. It’s temporary. Once the season is over, we’ll go back to normal.”
I sigh with relief. He’s right. I’m just being paranoid.
“See you tomorrow?”
He chuckles in response. “Sure, babe. I’ll try to move my schedule so we can at least have lunch together, okay?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“Love you, babe,” he says and doesn’t wait to hear it back.
Chapter Two
Mills
“Dada!” A voice booms inside my head. The sound feels like a rubber band bouncing in my mind as I go from deep sleep into a groggy state of reality.
When I open my eyes, I see my darling son jumping on the bed frantically, yelling, “Dada, Dada, Dada!” about a hundred times per second.
Kids are precious, they said. You’ll cherish every second you have with them, they said.
It makes me wonder if every person who has children blocks out the sleepless nights, the tantrums, and the tiny feet bouncing on the bed while you’re trying to get some sleep.
I love my son, he’s the best part of me. But I miss sleeping.
Two more fucking minutes, I want to beg, but instead, I heave myself out of bed.
I can’t remember the last time I slept more than five hours in a row. This kid is slowly killing me. I can already read the headlines: Former Hockey Player Dies From Lack of Sleep.
No. That can't be true. I won’t become a former player, I’m just thirty-four. Next year, I’ll be back on the ice. My knee is almost as good as new. The eighteen-month sentence to live in Baker’s Creek is over by the end of November. I just need to find a team that’ll take me since the Orcas released me from my contract.
“Dada, baffes.”
“Wa-ffles. Not baffes,” I correct him, lifting him from the bed and flying him around the room. “Ready for takeoff. Next stop, the kitchen!”
He giggles with excitement. We both imitate the noise of a plane engine as we go down the stairs.
I stop when we spot Easton, the contractor, measuring the railing. “Isn’t it a little early for house visits?”
He looks at me and shakes his head. “Henry texted me last night to make sure I’d arrive early.”
“You’re the only person who puts up with him,” I pat his shoulder as I continue descending the stairs. “Say hi to Mr. Rodin, Sport.”
“Hi,” Arden grins and waves his hand.
“So, what are you doing with the stairs?” I ask.
Beacon finally woke up from the induced coma and, according to Hayes, he could be flying back home as early as tomorrow or as late as six weeks. He sent more instructions to Henry, who has been making changes to the house and calling every person he knows to order what our little brother needs to recover.
“We’re adding a stairlift so Beacon can go up and down the stairs. It’s faster than adding a room to the downstairs area.”
I huff. “I bet you want to press ignore every time we call you.”
“No. Currently, you’re my only customer. Half of the town thinks it was my fault that the studio exploded,” he mumbles.
“Sorry about that. That might give you some time to finish my ice rink,” I grin and then leave him to his work.
My brother Pierce is in the kitchen, and he smiles at Arden. “How are you this morning, Sport?”
“Otay,” Arden answers.
“Did you have a good night’s sleep?” He says, taking him from my arms.
Arden gives him a sharp nod and says, “Baffes.”
“You need to teach him how to say eggs.” Pierce gives me a look that says, we can’t keep eating waffles.
I had to agree. It’s been his favorite breakfast since the last time Beacon was here, and for the past three weeks, he’s been looking for Beacon and waffles. We can give him the waffles but not his favorite uncle.
Beacon and Arden have a pretty tight bond. My little brother has been there for us since he learned that he would be an uncle. Beac and his girlfriend, Grace, visited us often. Now that we live in Baker’s Creek, he’s used to seeing his favorite uncle every day. His current absence is messing him up a lot.
“Any news from Beacon?”
“Vyk!” Arden claps.
Pierce gives me my son back and begins to pull out all the ingredients to prepare the waffles.
“Hayes hasn’t called with the morning update.” He shrugs. “You should focus your energy on finding someone to help us with the little ones. Blaire is about to pop, and she won’t be able to help us with Carter and Arden.”
“Who is going to want to work for us without getting paid?” I ask. We’d have to find a descendant from Mother Teresa if we want someone to help us for free.
Not even my mother wants to come and help me with my son.
“Can you just try?” Pierce insists.
“It's impossible. What am I supposed to offer in exchange for twenty to thirty hours of babysitting a week? If we wait until summer, there might be a few teenagers willing to do it for some change. But still, it wouldn’t be free.”
He looks me up and down. “You could always offer your body,” he says with a laugh “We can use you as a stallion. Are you any good?”
If I could, I’d flip him off or curse him out. However, the two-year-old begging for baffes stops me from doing it.
“Har, har,” I say, trying to control my temper. “Why can’t we have an adult conversation?”
“We could, but it’d be boring.” He shrugs. “We should find someone who needs legal help, housing, and maybe eggs.”
He points to the nearly overflowing basket of fresh eggs he’s collected from his chickens. Another reason why we should be eating eggs and not just waffles. “Beacon spoiled us,” I sigh.