The Writer's Baby Bear by Sophie Stern

Author:Sophie Stern [Stern, Sophie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sophie Stern
Published: 2020-02-25T06:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

Alicia

The next morning, the snow has finally stopped coming down, and I decide to get up early and go shovel the walkway. I get up, dress quickly, and slip outside. By the time I come back in an hour later, Cage and Orlando are both sitting on the couch. Cage looks dead. Orlando is complaining.

“Good morning, guys,” I say, stomping on the little doormat. Flakes of snow fall off of my boots, and then I kick them off.

“He got up so early,” Cage whispers, jerking his head toward Orlando.

I raise an eyebrow, but I don’t say, “I told you so.”

I refuse to say those words.

Cage wants to be a part of Orlando’s life, and I’m very pleased about this. Part of being a parent means understanding how kids work, though. I’ve had years to prepare and learn how Orlando operates. Cage has had a few days. It’s going to take time, and patience.

From all of us.

“I’m very tired,” Cage whispers again, but he doesn’t seem irritated. I just laugh and shake my head.

“You want some coffee? I’ll make you coffee.”

“Yes, please,” Cage grins boyishly, and I move to start the coffee.

“I cleaned a path to the car,” I tell him, looking over my shoulder. “So, if you need to get back into town today, I think the jeep can handle the roads.”

He looks at me carefully, and then at the window.

“I should go get online,” he says. “I’ll stop by the library.”

“I have Internet here,” I blurt out before he can say anything else. I don’t usually give out my Wi-Fi password, but...

I’m not ready for him to go.

Cage raises an eyebrow.

“All right,” he says. “I don’t have anywhere else I need to be. Not just yet, anyway.”

“You know, you never told me what your job is.” I stare at the coffee pot as the drip starts. Then I grab a couple of mugs and add some vanilla flavoring and cinnamon in the bottom. It’s Saturday, which means that I have two more days without any sort of responsibilities. Then it’s back to work for me, back to school for Orlando, and, I assume, back to normal life for Cage.

“I’m a writer.”

I stop, turning.

“A what?”

“A writer.”

“What do you write?”

“Books.”

“Is that so?”

“You seem surprised.”

“I am. A little. I never really pictured you as the writing type. Didn’t you fail English in 10th grade?”

“I failed a lot of things in 10th grade,” he says, chuckling.

“So what...what made you become a writer?”

It seems like such a stupid question. Even as the words leave my lips, I realize how stupid they are. What made him decide to be a writer? Is that really any of my business? Maybe he wanted to pursue his secret lifelong dream. Maybe he had this vision of who he would be, and it was an author.

I have no idea.

I definitely never would have pegged him for that, though, although now that I’m looking at him a little more closely, maybe I can see how he could pass as a sort of artist.

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