Being Eloise (An Erotic Romance Collection, Books 1-3) by Eloise Spanks Page B

I’d hung on the walls of myself and my son staring at each other, first serious, then both making goofy faces.
    “You look good,” Sam said, turning back to me. “You look hot, actually.”
    I chose to ignore the
actually
and just grunted. I was wearing my usual winter wear: wool socks, jeans, long sleeve t-shirt. The epitome, I think, of un-hotness. Guess it depends on one’s point of reference though.
    “You,” I said, trying to come up with some shade of a return compliment. “You…”
    “Yeah,” Sam said and sat down on the couch. “I know.”
    Seeing him sitting there where Olivia so often lay—so often that her favorite pillow was now a permanent fixture at the arm of the couch—made me realize I should probably have gone into psychotherapy rather than writing.
    “We split. Cheer and I,” Sam said.
    “That’s what her name was.”
    He stared hard at me.
    “Sorry,” I said, not sorry. Being left for another woman is not the kind of thing you get over easily. And it’s not the kind of thing I had an obligation to either forgive or forget.
    “It must be so hard on you,” I added, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
    Sam slapped his knees and made to get up, but he didn’t. He stayed put on my amateur-psychology-hour couch. I remember thinking that I should get one of those flat leather ones, or at least a chaise lounge. I doubted anyone overcame psychological impediments while occupying a couch with a dated floral pattern like this one.
    “So,” I said. “Our son.”
    “Oh. Yeah. He wants to have his birthday party at a batting cage.”
    “And?”
    Sam shrugged.
    “
That’s
what you wanted to talk about? His
birthday
party?”
    “Well…”
    “His birthday’s not for, what…half a year!”
    “I kinda just wanted to see you again. Not just, you know, from the car. Just wanted to talk.”
    “I’m going to finish that coffee,” I said, and walked into the kitchen and emptied the carafe into my
Oxford Commas Rule
mug. I was supposed to get on the phone in a half hour with the editor for the Irldale book. Our son would be home in a few hours, and having Sam here just made me feel like I was suddenly thrown back to a couple year’s earlier, when things had truly sucked. I would have preferred talking outside on the landing where I kept a couple plastic chairs, but it was way too cold for that.
    He was sitting in a chair when I came back into the living room. I wondered why. Too vulnerable on the couch?
    “I lost my job,” he said. “Everyone, actually. Whole place folded.”
    “Sam,” I said, truly affected this time. And I want you to know that I was sorry because I knew he was perfect for the job, and that another would be hard to come by in this economy. Only
then
, after about two seconds, did my mind flash the word
alimony
at me, sputtering like a neon sign on the brink.
    Sam. Soon to be deadbeat dad.
    “That blows,” I said.
    “Yeah,” he said. “It does.”
    “When?”
    “Last month.”
    I sat near him on the end of the couch, moving Olivia’s pillow aside. I put my hand on his hand where it gripped the chair’s arm. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Really.”
    “Yeah. So. Anyway. I just wanted to tell you that I may be a little short. If I can’t find something in a few months…I don’t know.”
    “I.O.U.?” I said, trying for a smile.
    He smiled and it warmed me a little to see that familiar grin. I hadn’t seen it delivered to me for so long that I’d forgotten it had once been
familiar.
I asked if our son knew.
    “Not yet,” Sam said.
    “You should tell him. Tell him this weekend.”
    Sam nodded.
    “And you’ll find something. You’re smart. You’ve got the experience. You’re good with people.” And I found that all these things I was saying about him were true. “You’re just lousy with women,” I added.
    “I’m sorry about that,” he said, putting his other hand over mine, like one of those hand piles children make. I put my free hand over