I keep that smile plastered on my face throughout the checkout. It feels like people are giving us weird looks. I swear I can feel their eyes on me. Their judgment. Maybe it’s in my head. Maybe it’s not real at all.

All I know is that I can’t get out of there fast enough. I’m not used to living somewhere that everyone recognizes you. I’m sure it’s why my parents travel so much. To get away from the people who stop them and ask for autographs all the time. To just be.

“Okay, get in, little man.” I open the back door of my jeep and toss the bags of lettuce in the front.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asks, climbing into his seat.

I sigh, watching his little hands pull the strap down over his shoulder and then struggle with the buckle. I reach across him and lend a hand, pulling away when I hear the telltale click. “Yes and no. Sometimes there are things we don’t say out loud.”

No point in beating around the bush.

I round the vehicle and hear his confused, “What do you mean?” through the open top.

“What I mean,” I start, getting into the vehicle and buckling myself in, “is that there are things we think in our heads or say to other people who we know and trust that we don’t share publicly. So like when you run into people like we just did, we might think about it, but don’t say it. It’s a bubble thought.”

“What’s a bubble thought?”

I feel like he’s missing my point here.

“Ever read a comic? Or see one in the newspaper? Your dad seems like the type of person who reads the newspaper.”

“Only on the weekends,” Luke supplies as I back out.

Figures.

“Okay, so comic book characters sometimes think things that they don’t say out loud. And that’s drawn as those little bubbles coming out of their head. So sometimes—bubble thoughts. That way, you don’t hurt anyone’s feelings when you say it out loud. Got it?”

“When you called my dad a woman hater, was that a bubble thought?”

Shiiiiittttttt.

Called out by a five-year-old.

I’m teaching a kid about bubble thoughts when I haven’t mastered the concept myself.

I swallow and peer back at him in the rearview mirror. “Yeah. It was a bubble thought. Sometimes they slip out on the best of us.”

“What do you do when that happens?”

I groan and stare hard at the road in front of me as we cruise down the main street toward the empty fields that head back to Wishing Well Ranch.

“You apologize,” I say, feeling like a heaping pile of trash for saying what I said. Made even worse by the knowledge that his son heard me.

“My dad will accept your apology. He likes you.”