Helping Sarah

Chapter 19

Sarah

"You want to play Duplo?"

The light, imploring voice turned both mine and Michael's heads to the wide, hopeful eyes of my son standing beside Michael's chair, holding up two oversized Lego bricks.

"Charlie," I smiled to lessen the rebuff, "I don't think–"

"I'd love to," Michael told him, "when I've helped your mum clear the table."

"Yay!" Charlie clanked the two bricks together and ran back into the living room. A moment later I heard the distinct cacophony of his box of bricks being upended all over the floor.

I placed my hand over Michael's sleeve to get his attention, though I made sure not to touch his hand. "You don't have to do this."

His smile swung to me. "I want to. I haven't played with Lego in years."

"It's not real Lego."

"But you can still build things."

He looked so eager I couldn't help but laugh. "All right, go on, then. I'll clear the table. You go build."

"You're sure?"

When I nodded, his grin only grew, and I heard Charlie happily greet him with an order of what our guest was to build, what bricks went where and the story of where he'd gotten each of them from. My son was nothing if not a despot.

Looking through the doorway at the grown man and the small boy with their heads together, I sat back and let free the giant smile that I could no longer contain. It had only grown throughout dinner, but this was new to me, to us, having someone here for dinner. Having a man here.

Charlie and I had never gotten to experience sitting down to a meal with Andrew. Those first four weeks of Charlie's life, Andrew and I had either taken turns quickly eating while the other comforted him, changed him or nursed him, or Andrew had been at work. Or with his drug dealer.

It wasn't hard to admit that I liked Michael. Though, my forehead crinkled a little and I tugged my hair behind my ears, of course I didn't like him like him. Not at all.

Michael was comfortable to be with, easy to talk to, and he made me laugh and feel safe, and how could I not like him when he'd hurried over here the moment I'd called him, had stayed with us, or when I looked at him with Charlie?

I glanced into the living room again. My son already had stars in his eyes when he looked at Michael.

I hadn't looked in the mirror, but I wouldn't be surprised if I had too. Especially after that moment by the hob. When he'd prevented me from a horrid burn. When the flutters in my stomach had flared again and stolen my breath.

I had stomped on the flutters. Determinedly pushed them back down. They were silly. Caused by a kind and handsome man and my own inane imaginings of something I knew couldn't be. I was still me, after all.

And yet, they had felt so very, very nice, the flutters.

But they weren't for me. I still knew this.

I had just temporarily forgotten.

Dragging in a breath, I stood and put the leftover lasagne in the freezer, then cleared the table and joined Charlie and Michael in the living room. All of the rug in front of the TV was covered in large, colourful bricks and in the middle, my three-year old son was firmly directing our guest in where and how to place the bricks on the farm they were building.

I took the opportunity of Charlie being preoccupied to sit at my desk by the window. My fingers itched to get on with the GoatRace illustrations for my presentation, and my gaze strayed to the small stack of happy baby goats on the corner of the desk. I was almost done, but the instructions for the battery operated window cleaner was the assignment I was being paid for.