Before Him

I push it all away, his reaction, my fear. What’s important is what happens now. And if he somehow thinks he can get to know Wilder over the coming weekend before he returns to his regular life, his regular programming? Well, he can think again.

This is all or nothing. A stable, fatherhood figure, however that looks, because, let’s face it, how would I know? But he’s either that or it’s hit the road, my friend. There’s no way I’ll allow him to devastate my son. Our son, I find myself mentally amending, glancing down to find my formerly shaking hands balled into fists. The thought sours the wine in my stomach. For seven years, Wilder has been mine. My son. My reason. My everything. How will I ever share him?

There’s no escaping that Wilder has been asking about his father more and more recently. And, well, now he has one. Not the made-up version who lives too far away to visit and whose favourite colour is orange. Or at least, he will have a father if Roman proves himself. Which means I first need to meet with him.

So with a slow exhale, I finish my text.

Would ten in the morning work for you? I’ll come to you.

I no sooner press send when I’m jerked out of my fear by the buzz of my phone.

Ten would be great. Thank you, Kennedy.

I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t that. I’m also oddly pleased he’s responded in whole words, not 10 wud b g8. Tnx.

Urgh! It’s not like tomorrow is a date or anything, I chastise silently. I mean, he’s obviously moved on. He might already have a family. A relationship. Kids. The possibility makes me feel ill again. How would we navigate any of that? How involved would he truly want to be? Even if he hasn’t, will he be a weekend father? A long-distance one? Will I be expected to put my son on an international flight twice a year to the other side of the world? From Australia, my mind hops to Scotland and,

“Jesus.” I drop my head to my hands. I’m going to have to explain this to Holland.

No, I decide, sitting straight again. I won’t do that. At least, not yet. My sister would be on the first flight back, to throw down or just to hold my hand, even though I’ve heard her say she’d rather contract Ebola than return to our little Podunk town. She’s just started a new job, and she’s unsettled enough after losing her last one so unexpectedly. I can’t blame her for not wanting to come back here. Not to mention she’s just discovered that she knows her (distant, thankfully) boss better than she ought to. She doesn’t need to come back for me. Or use me as an escape.

I’m the big sister—I’m the one that gets to worry and fuss.

And she gets to be the one who signed over her half of Nana’s house and business to put a roof over Wilder’s head. No, my sister has done enough. I mean, I’ll pay her back, even if it takes me a lifetime, because I know it wasn’t right to take from her in the first place. But she did it for Wilder and for me. Just like she’d come home if she knew.

Technically, it’s not a lie. It’s just a secret I tell myself as I slide the remains of the pizza delivery. As I pull on the back door to deposit the box into the trash, a light at the end of the garden catches my attention. Through a gap in the hedge, the pixie house is lit like a beacon, the sheers pulled open. When I’d chosen the design for the prefabricated house, I’d opted for one side to be almost entirely glass, reasoning that the more light the tiny residence had, the bigger it would feel. The hedgerow was supposed to provide privacy to both the vacationer and me, but the plants hadn’t taken too well in one spot. So like a super creeper, I watch from my darkened porch, Roman oblivious to my attention as he stares at his phone. Oblivious and suddenly shirtless as he stands with a careless kind of grace, pulling his T-shirt off by grasping it from the back of the neckline. He twists, dropping it to the chair, the light in the cabin catching his torso, and, oh my, the man still has abs for days. I mean, I can’t count them from this distance, but I either need glasses, or that’s more than a six-pack. He also has shoulders. And biceps. All of them broad, tan, and not meant for my eyes. Not that this stops me from watching as he begins to pace the length of the house, almost like it’s a runway. Just less pouting, maybe. Back and forward and back again, he pauses occasionally to swipe an almost frustrated hand through his hair or to swipe up the beer bottle from the table, bringing it to his lips.