Great parenting, arsehole.
22
Roman
PRESENT
RUH-ROH
“You got a swear jar?” The kid tilts his head to study me.
“I, er, no.” Swear jars would render most Australians permanently skint. We’re a sweary bunch generally. “No, I don’t.”
His dark eyebrows shoot higher on his head as he says, “Maybe you should get one.”
“It’s Wilbur, right?” Does every parent think their kid is beautiful? Probably, but fuck them, because this kid is beautiful, from the mop of dark hair that’s just flopped over one eye like a pirate’s patch to his grubby knees and the probable spaghetti sauce splodge on his SpongeBob T-shirt.
“You don’t know my name?” His arm tightens on the soccer ball propped against his hip, and I can’t say he looks all that impressed. I am an absolute fuckwit. I think I’ve just forfeited my cool uncle membership card because I’m sure as shit never going to be a cool dad in his eyes.
“Of course I know your name, little mate.” I’m unashamed of the desperate sounding lilt. “Your name’s Wilder.” I don’t think about how unnerved it might make him until I’m already standing. I pause to gauge his reactions, and when all seems cool, I make my way to the edge of the deck and sink down onto the edge. “My name’s Roman.” I hold out my hand for him to shake.
“I know,” he says, purposely thrusting his hand into mine the same way my old man taught me when I was no bigger than him. He gives it an exacting shake. A man’s shake, the kind that says: I’ve been taught that first impressions count.
His mum is so amazing, right?
I bite down on the corners of my mouth because this little man is so serious and seriously adorable as my hand engulfs his. I kinda don’t want to let go, despite his tiny paw being a bit grubby and sweaty. But no matter how perfect this feels, I force my fingers to retract because there’s every danger that if I don’t, I’ll just pull him closer, and that’s not cool. Not at this point.
He links both hands around his soccer ball, almost hugging it as we just kind of stare at each other, and I can’t help that I’m wearing a ridiculous grin. I reckon my cool uncle points, soon-to-be cool dad points, are about to hit minus figures. He probably thinks I’m a complete fruit loop. But then I remember something.
“Wait, should you be talking to me?” I glance at the hedge almost expecting Kennedy to come somersaulting over it like a ninja, all righteous looks and barrelling fists. But I guess, more to the point for him, I’m supposed to be a stranger. Kids get this shit shoved down their throats, don’t they? Stranger danger. I wouldn’t blame her if she hit the roof.
Fuck it, whispers a voice in my head. The fact that I breathe seems to annoy her at this point.
“You think I shouldn’t be talking to you?”
“I just don’t know if your mum would like it.”
“Because you’re a stranger?” His head cants the other way, but he doesn’t seem to be contemplating me as much as he does my words.
“I just think . . .” I ruffle my hand up the back of my head mainly to stop myself from mirroring his movement. Not that I think he’ll pick up on it. He’s only a kid, not a wizard. So why do I feel like I’m being weighed and examined. “I mean, she might want to introduce us herself.” What, like a fucking job interview?
“Do you have a nickname?”
It’s a little left of centre, but I can roll with it. I’ve had nine years of practise with Edie, Byron’s girl. “Yeah, I do. My brothers sometimes call me Ro.”
“How many brothers do you have?”
“Three. Three older brothers.”
“Wow, that’s a lot.” He squints.
“I guess it is.”
“They must be really old.”
His scrunched expression is hilarious, and my shoulders move with a silent chuckle. “Yeah, they’re ancient.”
“I wanted a brother, but Mom said it wasn’t up to me.”
His response sends my mind to a dozen places, none of them suitable for the current examination. “I reckon she might be right.”
“I think having a brother might be cool. Is it?”
“Most of the time.” Maybe now isn’t the time to tell him that Rafferty once knocked me out with a piece of two-by-four, covered me up with an old blanket, then happily left concussed me for dead.
“Do your brothers have kids?”
“Heaps of them.” My smile is part perplexed, part enchanted.
“You got a mom?”
“Yeah. Her name’s Sally. She’s pretty awesome.” I think you’ll like her. In fact, I know you will. No one can resist old Sal.
“Yeah.” His mouth twists to one side, his gaze tightening on his hugged soccer ball. “My mom is awesome, too.”
I swallow over the ball of yeahsheis and Ifuckingloveyou, gripping the edges of the deck against a primal kind of urge to reach out and pull him to me because I know what’s coming next.