I lean back against the sofa and watch the two of them delve into a baseball conversation that I can’t follow. Or maybe I don’t want to follow it. Trying to understand the mechanics of a baseball swing would take away from appreciating the two of them together.

My insides warm as Ethan shines under Cole’s attention. Again. This has happened a number of times tonight. Cole will stop what he’s doing to explain something to Ethan or listen to a joke or story, and Ethan eats it up.

But it makes sense. I do it, too, when Cole acts that way to me.

Cole Beck is one of the good ones.

I discovered tonight during dinner, when Cole stopped to look up the origins of hot dogs for Ethan, that Cole’s attentiveness is my favorite thing about him. It’s not his shoulders, which are fabulous, or the way he kisses me, which I love. It’s not the way he smells or the sound of his laugh. It’s the way he makes me feel like I’m the only person in the room.

It’s even better when I know Ethan feels that way too. He does that for my boy, like no one else but me has ever done.

I’m treading into deep water here. I feel the depth licking at my throat. But I’m not scared like I thought I would be—like I should be. Maybe I’ll regret this eventually, but right now the reward, even if for a bit, outweighs the risk.

“Yeah, just like that,” Cole says. “Your power comes from your hips. Work on keeping your motion like that.”

Ethan practices his swing a final time. Then he turns to Cole.

“Thanks for helping me,” he says. “And for hanging out with us tonight.”

This catches Cole off guard. He flinches briefly but recovers quicker than I expect.

“Of course, my man,” Cole says, patting Ethan on the shoulder. “It was my pleasure. You’re a cool kid.”

Ethan looks at me out of the corner of his eye and grins a shit-eating grin. “A cool kid with a cool mom.”

“A very cool mom.” Cole looks at me over his shoulder and winks. “A pretty one too.”

I laugh, shaking my head at them. “Why are you two being sweet?”

“Because I want him to like you so he comes back,” Ethan says, laughing too. “Let’s face it—he didn’t come here to hang out with me.”

“Ethan . . . ,” I warn, but he keeps talking anyway.

“He’s nice to you, Mom. All the time. Not like Charlie or the other guys you’ve gone out with that make you mad and frustrated. Or cry in the bathroom.”

He knows about that?