“I know what you’re thinking, and you need to stop,” Troy says, crumpling up his napkin and throwing it on his plate.
“I can’t help it. I drink one glass of wine,” I wince, “okay three, and decide to unplug, and he needed me. What if you weren’t here?”
“Don’t. I was here, and I’m so damned happy about that fact, so let me have my moment, okay?”
I nod, and he leans over and tips my chin, so I’m facing him.
“Promise me you won’t beat yourself up about it.”
“It was past eight, so I thought it was safe to relax.”
“You don’t have to explain it to me, Clarissa. I know you would never, ever, put him in harm’s way.”
“But I did. I knew those kids weren’t his friends, but I wanted so much for him to fit in somewhere. I’m a fucking high school teacher, I know how cruel kids can be. What was I thinking?”
“I was thinking the same. I’ve noticed he doesn’t invite friends over or get invited either. I was hoping for what you were. I’m just as guilty. But he’s special, too sensitive for those brutes. He’s got quirks, he’s different, and that’s okay. It’s more than okay.”
“How about the lining up of his toys,” I grin. “How they have to be just so. And the way he gets possessive about the weirdest stuff.”
“He’s a neat freak for sure.”
“Hey, don’t you dare touch that.”
We smile at each other.
“When he was just a baby, he was addicted to Animusic. He played those videos over and over and over again, and it took me a while to realize he was memorizing them. He was almost two the first time he climbed up to my PC and started using a mouse. He could barely talk in sentences then.”
“He’s scary smart.”
“What are we going to do?”
Troy shrugs. “Let him be him. Exactly what we’ve been doing.”
“They won’t understand him,” I say fearfully.
“Someone will,” he says intently. “Someday, maybe sooner, maybe later, someone is going to stop and take notice of how special he is and stake their claim in his life. Trust me. It’ll happen more than once.”
I sniff. “When did you get so good at saying the perfect thing?”
“I’m a practicing father. Was that all right?”
“Better than.”
A tear runs down my cheek, and he moves to sit next to me, studying it.
“What are you doing?” I ask as he leans in.
“It’s beautiful, you know,” he says, lifting it away with his thumb. “It’s a mother’s love.”
We’re so close. If just one of us gives, our lips will touch. Troy lingers as I inhale his scent, his masculinity. In seconds, I get lost in his stare, the fullness of his lips, the weight and gravity of our connection. This can’t happen.
“Excuse me,” I say, lifting only to bang my knee on the table. Troy curses under his breath as Dante returns from the living room. “Where are you going?” He asks as I move to retreat to my bedroom.
“To get dressed.” And scream in a pillow.
Sarah Jane’s Seven Layer Dip
Personal Assistant, Los Angeles