Then I look over at Bram, whose hand is still on the gearshift, and for a split second I imagine more grey in his hair. I imagine more stubble on his gorgeous chin and lines by his eyes. I imagine him older and I imagine myself older, and a teenage Ava in the backseat.
My heart seems to expand at the thought, feeling whole, complete. Then it stutters, as if it’s something it can’t even begin to comprehend and I feel embarrassed that my mind even went there for a moment. Holy moly, what the hell has gotten into me?
“Let’s go to the doors,” I say quickly, opening the door and getting out of the car. I can tell Bram is puzzled by my abrupt departure but I need to clear my head and focus on the task at hand. Couch, couch, couch. Swedish furnishings. Mesh pits filled with balls. One-dollar hot dogs.
By the time we get to the doors though, after wrangling Ava out of the booster seat and making sure I have sliced apples, a small bit of juice, the insulin pen and glucose monitor just in case, the store is open for business. Still it’s relatively quiet and we’re lucky that the ball pit isn’t all full. Ava is measured to make sure she’s tall enough to go in and then we leave her there with the daycare, which gives us about an hour on our own, just enough to look around the store and then pick her up for lunch.
I watch her for a few minutes as she slowly approaches the edge of the pit, watching the kids who are already in it. She’s never been that shy with other kids but I haven’t really exposed her to them either. I guess I just don’t have any friends who have kids – something that happens when you have a kid early and out of wedlock.
One child, a boy a few good inches taller that her, swims through the balls and then stops in front of her. He grins, toothless and then throws a ball at her. It bounces right at her head and before I know it, I’m ready to run to the pit, scoop Ava up and call that little shit what he really is.
But Bram has grabbed hold of my arm and he’s pulling me back and to him.
“Easy, mum,” he murmurs in my ear. I let him hold me and we watch as Ava picks up the ball and throws it right back at the boy. It hits him square in the chest and she scowls at him before walking off to the other side of the pit where a girl with red pigtails bounces up to her.
“He’s not much different from you,” I mutter as my heart rate turns back to normal.
Bram still has his hand around my bicep and he lowers it down my arm, his fingers skimming over my skin until I’m certain he’s going to grab onto my hand and hold it. But then he pulls away all together. “And Ava knows just how to deal with boys like me, just like her mum has. Shall we?”
I know we won’t get anything done if I keep standing in by the play center. I watch as other moms come and drop off their kids and then hurry away into the store as if they can’t wait to be done with them. I’m so used to being around Ava all the time that it’s hard not to have her with me if I can help it. But this is good for her and it’s good for me. It has to be.
I give Bram a small smile and we go up the massive staircase and into the rest of the store.
“So,” Bram muses as the floor plans make us start in the living room set ups, just where we need to be. “What kind of couch are you looking for?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. A cheap one.” I eye a humungous sectional right in front of us. “A small one. And one that doesn’t tear easy.”
Bram plops down on the sectional and puts his feet up on the coffee table, making himself right at home. “Well, I hate to break this to you but IKEA isn’t exactly known for their quality. Cheap, yes.”
But I’m no longer listening to him. Instead, my eyes are drawn toward his socks on display. Again, they are the ugly brown and yellow ones with the loch ness monster all over them.
“Okay,” I say, nodding at them, “this is the second time I’ve seen you wear them. What is up with the socks?”
He looks at his ankles, as if he’s surprised to see his feet there. “Oh these? Lucky socks.” But when he smiles at me, there is something hard in those eyes of his. It’s a look I don’t see too often and even though I immediately want to dissect it and figure out what it means, I know I shouldn’t. I’m the queen of deflection and that look tells me he’d give me a run for my money.
Instead I say, “Are they lucky? They are the ugliest things I’ve ever seen. Doesn’t really go with your whole outfit.”
The dark look passes and he eyes me with mocking sincerity. “Are you taking an interest in what I wear?”
“It did used to be my job,” I say. “I mean, I dressed mannequins but I made sure they were the best dressed mannequins in the whole of SF.”
“I believe it,” he says. “For a woman without a lot of money, you sure manage to make yourself look like a million dollars.” He gets up off the couch and I’m kind of stunned at the compliment. Believe it or not, it means more to me than he could know. I used to have a fashion blog years ago when it was cool and profitable, and I took so much pride in how I dressed. Now, it just didn’t seem important anymore.
No, scratch that. It wasn’t that it wasn’t important. It’s just I found it no better than the crazy glue holding my kitchen table together. I could dress up but deep down I was still a fucking mess.
Except today I actually did dress up a bit. I put on a pair of Alexander McQueen ankle boots from many years and many seasons ago, skinny jeans from Old Navy (which I got on sale for $4) and a Petite Bateau Breton striped topped. It’s a little threadbare at this point but it still makes my rack look fantastic. Let’s face it, it’s why I’m wearing it and from the way Bram’s eyes keep flitting there, I can tell he appreciates the effort.
“Thank you,” I tell him, fumbling for a way to play off his compliment. “You’re not so bad yourself. You know, aside from the poo and pee socks.”
He bursts out laughing. “Poo and pee? You’ve been hanging around Ava too long, my love.”
“Probably,” I admit and we carry on down the aisle. So far, none of the couches I’ve spotted are exactly what I’m looking for and I’m getting tired of sitting down and getting up again to try them out.
Finally we come across an area where a lot of the armchairs are and there’s something that catches my eye. It’s a small loveseat with bright yellow fabric and metal legs. I gravitate toward it and look at the price tag. It’s under a hundred bucks. I could get two of them, they’d fit with my décor and they look pretty easy to assemble as well.
“Seriously, this?” Bram asks, eyeing the couch with distain. “How are you going to have me over? I’ll break the damn thing if I sit on it.”
“Try it,” I coax him and watch as he lowers his large frame onto the couch.
He winces. “The most uncomfortable couch I have ever had my arse in.”
I sit down beside him. It’s snug. Really snug. My leg is smushed up against his and that wonderfully hot, male smell of his is teasing me. But other than that, he’s right. It’s pretty bare bones in the padding department.
But the price is right. “I have lots of pillows,” I tell him, attempting to get out of the couch. “I could make it work.”
And I’m really working my abs trying to get out of the damn thing. Bram is absolutely no help. He reaches for my collar and pulls me back down beside him.
“You know if we were a couple,” he says, sliding his arm along the backrest so it’s hovering behind my shoulder, “this would be the perfect couch for us. We’d never get up. We’d have to sit here in each other’s company for eons.”
“Thank God we don’t have to deal with that,” I say and now his arm is right on my shoulders, his hand curling around and holding me to him.
“It isn’t so bad,” he says, his voice sounding a bit gritty. “Is it?”
“I can’t believe you’re putting the moves on me in IKEA,” I joke, making an attempt to rise again. I don’t make it far. I guess my attempt was rather half-hearted.