“Mommy!” Javier’s bloodcurdling scream filters through the open door.
Peyton shoots up in bed before I do. She’s on her feet and out the door in an instant. There’s the pull at my heart, letting me know she’s too close and that eventually she’ll hurt me or Javier. That’s what all women do. It’s inevitable, and as overprotective as I’ve been with my heart, it’s twice as fierce when it comes to my son. I shake my head, scrubbing at my face as if I can cleanse the doubt.
Seconds later I stand outside Javier’s door and see him nestled in Peyton’s arms as she strokes his overgrown brown hair. His sobbing eases as Peyton whispers things I can’t hear, but I know offer love and reassurance.
“I had a bad dream,” he tells her.
“It’s okay. I’m here.” She rocks him in her arms for a few seconds, letting him settle. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“It was about my papa. He was hurting my mommy and I tried to stop him, but I wasn’t strong enough.”
“Oh, baby.” That’s all I hear Peyton say as I barely make it back to my room. Whatever else is said between them will only turn me into a crying bitch.
I’ve failed to save Javier from Eduardo. Even dead, the man will haunt that little boy. It’s like he knows Javier’s so close to finally having security and he refuses to let it happen. More likely it’s me he’s haunting and using his son to do it, as he always did.
Thirty minutes later, Peyton slides into bed next to me and lies on her side. I welcome her into my embrace but find little comfort in her palm running up and down my chest. “I think he needs to talk to someone,” she whispers.
“Like a shrink? Fuck that!”
I tried the shrink route after my mother flipped my life upside down. That quack doc made things much worse. He provided every excuse I needed to act like a manwhore, didn’t give a fuck . . . ass.
“He needs to talk to someone.”
“He has us,” I snap.
She sighs at the severity of my voice. “Did you even hear what he said?”
“Yes. That his dad was beating on Maria. He saw it many times.”
“No . . . After that, he said in the dream his mommy was me. He’s scared, Aidan. On some subconscious level, he thinks what happened to his mother was his fault. And now that we’re getting close, he’s afraid to fail and lose me.”
My skin prickles at knowing my son’s deepest fears are so close to my own. “Well since your belongings will arrive tomorrow, you can go back to your place. Maybe if you aren’t around so much, it’ll be easier for him.”
“You fucking asshole. Don’t do that to him.”
She knows me well enough to know I’m putting the walls back up firmly in place, but she won’t let me do it easily.
“Do what? He’s not talking to some quack who will only make it worse.”
She releases a breath to show her annoyance at my bullshit as she rolls over and lies flat on her back. “No, I meant don’t put your shit on him. If this is too hard for you and you just want to be done with me, say it before I get any closer to that little boy.”
The hole is deep, but I have to dig my way out because just hearing the words that us being done is a possibility makes me realize I’m handling this all wrong. “How can I be done with you?”
“You did it before.”
The sadness in her tone softens me. I roll onto my side facing her. Her face is highlighted by the light in the hallway she left on. This would be easier in the dark, when I didn’t have to see how tense this conversation has become.
“I might have left you, but I was never done with you. Even when I found Maria again, you were always there. And you knew it. That’s why you waited so long for me.”
I thought I was saying something reassuring, but she looks at me like I’ve only made things worse and I would have been better off keeping my mouth shut.
“Time I wasted, because you’re still too jaded by things that were never your fault to admit how you feel.”
“I’m trying, goddamn it!” I didn’t mean to yell and when she flinches at my tone, I realize the baggage I carry will always be there to steer me in the wrong direction.
“What’s holding you back? What do I have to do to make you see me? Do I need to dye my hair black and cover my body in tattoos so you’ll keep your eyes open when you touch me? I know you picture her face every time you kiss me. I can feel it, but I can also feel how much you want to care about me. I’m not her and I never will be, because I’m here and I’m real and I love you. And I love that little boy. Please let her go. Take a chance . . . Believe you love me, because I believe you do. I know you do.”
I reach for her face, but she turns her head, unable to accept any affection or simply unwilling to. She’s extremely hurt and rightfully so. Always seeking what’s easier, I intentionally pushed for a fight. Having not a clue how to make things right only serves to bring my anger to the surface, which between the two of us, will end in certain disaster.