him, but I have no idea what a seven-year-old will want to eat. I figure that if I pick up some random food, something will sing to him and he’ll be happy. The only place I know where I can shop without facing the town’s judgment is at the tackle shop, so I head in that direction. The bell tinkles over the door as I walk in.
I smile as I walk in and see Abigail leaning against the counter, shooting the breeze with Shy. She makes friends so easily. People love her, and I can see why. She’s friendly and she’s outgoing and she’s just damn-it nice.
“Hey,” she says when she sees me, and her cheeks get immediately rosy. She looks at Shy and he ducks his head trying to hide his grin. But when she turns her head back to me, he lifts his brows at me in question. I give a tiny shake of my head and try to brush him off, but he’s not having it.
“Hey, yourself,” I say. “I’m actually really glad you’re here.” I look around the store, a little lost about where to start. I look at Shy. “Can I steal her for a few minutes?”
“That would be up to the pretty lady.” He throws up his hands like he’s feeling a little defeated. “But why she would pick you over me, I have no idea…”
“I promise I’ll give her back.” I grab her shoulders and spin her in the direction I want her to go.
“What are we doing?” she asks over her shoulder as I guide her to the grocery section. “And why are we doing it?”
“Today’s Saturday,” I say. I’m feeling all out of sorts, and I’ve felt that way ever since I woke up this morning. I feel like my skin’s about to itch off and I can’t sit still. I know it’s nerves. And there’s more than one reason why my nerves are on edge. One is the game and the knowledge that I’m going to have to see the townspeople who hate my guts, and the other is that Mitchell is coming for his first sleepover.
“Okay,” she says slowly, her eyes narrowing at me.
“So that means Mitchell is coming to spend the night.”
She grins. “I know. Aren’t you excited?”
I nod. “Terrified would be a more accurate word.”
Her brow furrows. “Why are you terrified?
“What if he doesn’t like me?” I whisper-yell. Then I hide my face behind my hands and growl into them. “I hate feeling like this.”
Her face softens. “You’re worried he won’t like you?”
I hold my finger and thumb about an inch apart. “Maybe a little.”
“He adores you,” she says, like she’s trying to remind me. “Stop worrying.”
“He doesn’t even know me.” I wince at the truth of them even as I say the words.
“He does know you. He knows you’re his father and that you adore him. I’ve seen you with him. That bond is already there.”
I heave in a breath. “Okay.”
“Okay,” she repeats, like she’s coaching a baseball team. “So what did you need from me?”
“What do I feed him?”
She looks surprised. “What do you feed him?”
“Stop looking at me like that,” I grouse. “The last time I had him with me, he was still eating soft food that came in jars.”
“Did you ask your mom what he likes?”
Why didn’t I think of that? “I should do that, huh?”
She waves her hands. “Don’t even worry about it. Just pick up some staples.”
“Staples? What…?” I stare at her.
She shakes her head in mock annoyance. “Some fruit, some of those fishy crackers, some cereal and milk for breakfast, maybe some hot dogs and marshmallows you can roast over the fire…” She lets her voice trail off, expecting me to get the gist.
“Do you think it’s safe to have him around a fire?”
“Mitchell is seven, right? I think he can safely roast a marshmallow with parental supervision.” I must stare at her too long because she adds, “That’s you, dummy. The parent.”
“Oh. Right.”
She grabs a basket and walks around tossing random things in. She gets some fish-shaped snack crackers in case he gets the munchies during the night, some cereal and milk for breakfast, and she gets some hot dogs and buns for dinner. “He might like roasting these,” she says. She walks around some more, grabbing random fruit and kid snacks that I didn’t even know existed, and then she walks to the tackle section of the store. “Does he like to fish?”