Ink My Heart

I absently grab the butter dish as I wait for the toast to pop up.

A future for Justin and me is implausible. He’s a college student and the lead singer of a local college band. He parties all the time, appears to have a trust fund, and hooks up with different women on a regular basis—for goodness’ sake, he has groupies. I’m a single mother running a business, going to school, and paying her own way. He lives a carefree life. I have too many responsibilities to count. Important responsibilities.

I glance at Ben watching TV as I stir the chicken noodle soup.

If I’m going to date, he has to be someone who is settled in life, knows where he’s going, and has a sense of responsibility. I feel old and judgmental thinking like that, but I’ve been down the Trevor road. Both Ben and I need stability. And Justin is the farthest thing from stable.

I’m aware that many people would call me uptight. Other single mothers date regularly, and don’t consider it a big deal. My reluctance is partly because the only person I’ve ever really dated is Trevor—from when I was fourteen to when I was sixteen. Then, when we got back together after an especially bad breakup, I stupidly let him talk me into marriage. Okay, he didn’t have to talk much. I was on cloud freakin’ a million after he asked me. But having wedding rings didn’t make our problems go away, and less than two years later I was freshly divorced. At the time I imagined being a teenage mother would have guys crossing me off their possible lists. Once I got distance from Trevor though—and got my head screwed on right—I realized I would be crossing men off my list. Shuffling a parade of men in and out of my son’s life wasn’t an option. And I had no interest in dating someone who wasn’t interested in being part of Ben’s life.

And Justin, with his harem of fans, doesn’t belong anywhere near my empty list of possible men to date.

After cutting the toast into bite-size pieces and letting the soup cool, I take a tray to the coffee table.

Ben sits up. “That smells good,” he says.

I’m hoping his enthusiasm is a sign the bread and soup will stay down. I open the cabinet under the TV. “You want me to put a DVD in?”

Chewing on toast, he nods vigorously.

“The Magic School Bus or Sid the Science Kid?” I ask. I’m not sure where my son got his insatiable curiosity. Except for art, I was never more than a decent student. Trevor was a bad boy in high school and his grades reflected it. But our son is going to be a scientist or a mechanical engineer or something amazing.

“Bus,” he says through a mouthful of toast.

Done loading the DVD, I move to the couch as he splashes soup all over the coffee table. “Here,” I say, sitting next to him. “Let me help.”

We watch TV as I feed him soup. Done eating, he curls against me. I let him watch one more episode, then run him a bath. He doesn’t play like usual, just lets me soap and rinse. Clean and dressed in warm pajamas, he leans into me.

“Can I sleep with you?” he asks, his mouth a cute pout.

After Trevor left, I let Ben sleep with me far too often. Breaking the habit had taken one hellish month. But when he’s sick, I usually cave. “Just tonight,” I say, hugging him back. “Tomorrow you’re back in your bed.”

“Tomorrow I’ll feel good enough for my bed,” he says firmly with a soft smile. My heart warms.

Ben always melts my heart.

I read his favorite book. He falls asleep. Too tired to do anything but brush my teeth, I trudge to the bathroom. The sound of my phone vibrating on the counter comes at me in the hall.

I ignore it and the tug at my heart.

Because if I do ignore Justin, my heart will be safe. It’s not only my practical thoughts concerning Ben that are keeping me from picking up the phone. It’s mostly my torn, beaten, fearful heart.

Chapter 17 Justin

Hey, Justin,” Marcus says, pressing a controller and jumping in front of a flat screen. “What’s up? You want next game?”

I pause at the door of his dorm room, trying to decide if I can deal with the scene—dorks playing video games.

It has been twenty-four hours since I talked with Allie. She won’t answer my texts or her phone. My reaction about her son was fucked up, sure. But her not telling me was fucked up too. And her refusing to communicate with me pisses me off. Then I get pissed because I’m pissed. I don’t do this. I don’t “care” about girls.

The loud sound of the video game spills into the hall, and I realize Marcus is giving me a questioning look. The guy is in the college marching band, and is one of Riley’s best friends. He’s been in awe of me since he moved into the dorm in August. His awe pumps my ego. Selfishly, I like my ego pumped. And it seriously needs to be pumped right about now.

“Invite him in and you’ll be sitting out, bitch,” Marcus’s roommate, Don, says.

“Please. Here comes the boom!” Marcus yells as his quarterback throws a bomb across the screen. The receiver catches it.

“Oh, you are one lucky asshole,” Don says.

“Luck? It’s all pure talent.” Marcus glances over his shoulder. “You in?”

“Nah,” I say, shaking my head. “Just passing through.” Usually I find their freshman antics amusing. Not today. I’m finding them both beyond annoying. And other than at band practice, I rarely get annoyed. I push out of the doorway. “Catch you later.”

In my room, I drag my acoustic guitar out of the closet, sit on the bed, and strum the few tunes I know. I’m hoping that playing will distract me from thinking about Allie. I tried doing homework earlier but couldn’t concentrate. Yet hearing the chords of the guitar echo in the room reminds me of her. Frustrated, I put down the guitar next to me and pick up my phone. No missed calls. No new texts.

Something snaps inside me, and I lose it. Before I know it, I’m smashing my guitar on the ground. Once. Twice. Three times. Pieces of splintered wood fly all over. Some hit me. Others bounce off the walls and the desk. In seconds, they cover the floor.

Breathing heavy, I’m sitting there staring at the shards of wood strewn all over when a knock sounds. After about the fifth knock, I let out a deep breath, drop the broken guitar stem on my bed, and answer the door.

“Justin!” Riley says, confusion turning her lips down. “What are you doing here?”

“Ah, I live here.”

“Shut up. You know what I mean. You’re never here.”

“Right now I’m here.”

She still appears puzzled. “Romeo in?”

I shake my head.

“Huh,” she says, still looking confused. She twists her ponytail between her fingers. “He’s supposed to meet me here. Can I wait inside?”

“You don’t really want to come in,” I say from behind gritted teeth.

“Why?”

Reluctantly I let go of the door handle and head for the bed, sitting down with a sigh.

“What is that?” Riley asks, staring at the pieces all over the floor.

I shrug. “What’s left of my guitar.”

After shutting the door, she takes a couple steps into the room and picks up a piece of wood. “You smashed your guitar?”

“Apparently.”

“You and Romeo fighting again?” she asks, her voice low.

“Nope. This one was all me.”

She picks up some of the bigger pieces and tosses them into the trash. “Must be nice to be able to afford to