And I liked water. Lakes. Oceans. Rivers. Even streams. I didn’t have much calm in my life, but anytime I was around water, I found it.

So Rivers it was.

“Hey,” Trent called.

“Yo,” I replied, making my way toward him, needing food in my stomach and another cocktail of hangover cure.

I scratched swinging into McDonald’s before I hit Walmart on my to-do list as I arrived on the stoop.

I looked up at Trent.

He was good-looking, always had been, but it was better now that he wasn’t gaunt and strung out because he’d rather smoke than eat. And I was grateful to him for giving me one thing—or giving it to Ethan—that being sharing with my son all the good stuff he had to give. Thick, dark blond hair, a long, sturdy frame, nice bone structure.

But Ethan got his momma’s brown eyes.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“You got a second to talk?” he asked back.

I didn’t. I didn’t because I didn’t, and I didn’t because I felt shit, and I didn’t because my morning was even more shit than I felt, but I also didn’t because I never wanted to take a second to talk to Trent.

He might have gotten it together, but he still left me alone, pregnant, and in love with a junkie asshole who, in the end, didn’t give a shit about me.

I could hold a mean grudge; it was just how I was.

But on that score, I felt he deserved it.

Of course, him being Ethan’s dad and now around, I reined that in when usually I’d let it fly.

Another part of life that sucked.

“Sure,” I answered, digging out my keys and moving to the door.

He got out of the way so I could pull open the screen door, and as I did that, seeing as it was late September, I decided it was time for me to get the storm windows from the garage and switch out the screens.

I put that on my to-do list too.

Then I let us in, Trent shutting the door behind him.

I tossed my purse and keys to the couch.

Even though he’d been there before to pick up Ethan, Trent looked around.

I didn’t. I knew what I’d created for my son. I knew why I did.

It was me and it was comfortable, even if it was more than a little crazy.

It leaned toward boho, something you might not read looking at me, my high heels, my short skirts, my tight tanks and tight jeans.

Then again, you might.

In my living room (and throughout the house), there were some garage sale finds. There were some secondhand store finds. There were also some good, quality pieces I’d saved up for or put on layaway or bought on my card and paid off.

I’d thrown some scarves over ornate lamps. Other lamps had bright shades in pink or turquoise. Fringed, floral throws. A tiger-print ottoman. Whacky-patterned, mismatched toss pillows on equally mismatched furniture. A wicker bucket chair with a round paisley pad cushioning it. Lush potted plants everywhere.