Except the last thing I want to do is go running back to him and show him I’ve failed on my own. Just picturing the satisfied grin on his face has my stomach aching.
Tears sting my eyes, and I do everything I can to fight them off. The last thing I need is for Sam to walk in here and see me crying. I’ve worked hard to be strong for him throughout the years, and I’m not going to change that now.
That’s right.
I’m strong.
Hell, I managed a teenage pregnancy all on my own when my parents wanted nothing to do with me. Finding a place to live with the deadline inching closer and closer? Piece of cake compared to that.
I lift my head, determination coursing through my body.
I can fix this. I’m not sure how, but I can.
“Yo, Mom, what time are you leaving?”
Speaking of my teenage pregnancy…
I snap the laptop closed before he can see what’s on the screen. I don’t need to bother Sam with this stuff. It’s my problem, not his.
I push up off the couch and move toward the kitchen, shoving the computer back into my bag where it hangs off the chair at the bar. Sam knows getting into my work bag is prohibited, so I know it’s at least safe from his prying eyes in there.
“Why? Curious how much longer you have on your GameStation?”
“Mom.” He huffs, rolling his eyes. “It’s a PlayStation, not a GameStation.”
“Roll your eyes at me again and I’ll take your GameStation right back to the store.”
He starts to lift his eyes skyward again, then thinks better of it when I raise my brow at him.
“Sorry,” he mutters. “What time is Dad getting here?”
I glance at the clock on the stove. “He said he’d be here about six thirty.”
“Cool. Can I get ice cream after dinner?”
“You’ll have to ask your father.”
“He’ll say yes. He always does.”
Of course Patrick always says yes to ice cream. He’s the cool parent.
We share custody of Sam. Oftentimes he’ll spend a week at my place and then a week at his father’s.
And oftentimes he’ll come home with shiny new gadgets or telling me about all the cool stuff he did with his dad.
I try not to be jealous of all the things Patrick can provide, but it’s hard sometimes.
“Just make sure if you’re going to play your game, you’re doing it out here. I know how wrapped up in it you can get, and I don’t need your father knocking on the door for several minutes disturbing the neighbors.”
I’ve received that complaint before from the always-angry lady next door, and I don’t care to get it again. I have other things to be worried about.
“I will.”
“Good.” I press my hands against my stomach. “Okay, how do I look?”
I opted for a simple yet trendy outfit for the night out: an off-the-shoulder, long-sleeved silky dark pink blouse plucked straight from a mannequin at the small boutique I work at, a pair of dark-wash skinny jeans, and black booties. It’s nothing that will turn heads, but it’s cute enough to get me through a couple of hours with my friends as we nurse a drink or two and complain about life.
“Beautiful.”
I grin at him because he’s not saying it to be a kiss-ass. He’s just that sweet. “That’s why you’re my favorite kid.”
“I’m your only kid.” He sighs like he’s exhausted by me.
“Thank god, too. I couldn’t handle another one of you.” I cross the room and wrap my arms around him, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. He grumbles, trying to wiggle out of my embrace. “Love you. Be good for your dad. Text me when he picks you up, please.”
Patrick’s supposed to do that too, but he always forgets.
Sam never does.
“Love you too,” he mutters, and I tousle his hair as he tries to shove my hand away, but I don’t miss the grin forming at the corners of his mouth.
He might almost be thirteen and is convinced he’s a grown-up, but he’s a momma’s boy at heart. He always has been. We bonded during all the years I stayed at home with him.
I grab my purse off the hook by the door and slip it over my body, then give myself one more glance in the mirror.
I tousle my own hair and smooth down my shirt again.
Eh, good enough.
I’m not trying to impress anyone tonight. I just want to drink and have fun with River.