Because it’s the first day of class, the professor discusses the syllabus, how the grading will work, and what his expectations are. I barely hear a word he says as I focus my attention on Keegan—no, Kolton, as he stands next to Professor Finnigan. When he excuses himself, I consider running after him, but don’t want to make a scene.
The rest of the morning goes by in a blur. I’m taking four classes total—two on Mondays and Wednesdays and the other two on Tuesdays and Thursdays. When my second, and last, class of the day is done, Brenton asks if I want to go to lunch, but I tell him I need some time alone. I can tell he doesn’t like it, but he at least doesn’t argue.
After picking up Zane from school, who’s upset that I’m picking him up early and making him miss playground time, we go home and I lay him down for a nap. Sierra is at work and texts me she’ll be home late. She’s staying straight through to handle the evening shift. Not wanting to tell her what happened through a text or over the phone, I tell her I’ll see her tomorrow after class. Then I pull my social media up on my laptop and type in Kolton Reynolds. I know it’s a K instead of a C because it’s written on my syllabus. A profile pops up, and I click to view it. And sure enough, it’s him. Same dimples, same brown hair, same gorgeous green eyes. Every feature matching our son’s.
Unfortunately, since his profile is set to private, I can’t see anything except his main picture, which is only a headshot. I search Instagram, but nothing comes up. Then I decide to search for Keegan Reynolds. Nothing comes up. I click back onto Kolton’s page, but it doesn’t show any friends, and I’ve hit a wall. None of this makes any sense. Why would he lie about his name? Lie about not remembering me? I pull his picture up on my phone and screenshot it so I can show Sierra when she gets home.
Blakely
“So, let me get this straight,” Brenton says, “he has a profile under Kolton, but it’s as if Keegan doesn’t exist?”
“Yeah,” I say as we walk Zane to daycare before we head to class.
“I think you should stay away from him. Something is off with this guy.”
“He’s…” I don’t finish my sentence, not wanting Zane to know what we’re talking about, but I nod my head toward my son, who is skipping along the sidewalk and purposely jumping over each crack, since he learned at school yesterday from some kids that if he steps on one, my back might break. When he told me, I laughed, but quickly stopped when he glared and told me he was serious.
“So what?” Brenton argues. “If he wanted to be a dad, he wouldn’t have acted like you didn’t exist. I say screw him.”
I glance over at Brenton and notice his fists are clenched together, and his knuckles are almost completely white. Brenton is one of the most laidback guys I know, so it’s weird to see him so worked up.
“Jailbird?” I hear being called out, and my body stiffens. There’s only one guy who has ever called me that. I look over and spot him, and my heart palpitates. Today, his hair is covered by a gray beanie, and he’s no longer in a suit, but instead in a pair of ripped blue jeans and a long-sleeved black shirt with a large Billabong logo across the front. A pair of all black shoes with the letters DC in white across the sides.
And he’s not walking. Nope, he’s skateboarding. He looks nothing like the guy from yesterday, and everything like the guy from our week in Cocoa Beach, and he apparently remembers me. What the hell is going on?
I watch for a few seconds as he rolls closer on his board, but I can’t do this. Not with Zane here. I don’t know what’s going on, but I can’t have this conversation in front of my—our—son.
Picking Zane up, I walk quickly past him, not stopping when he continues to call out my name. I’ll deal with this tomorrow. He’s my TA all semester, so it’s not as if I won’t see him again. After kissing my son goodbye, I step outside. A part of me is hoping to see him waiting, but at the same time, I’m glad he isn’t. But Brenton is, and he looks as confused as I feel.
“I stopped him when you walked away.”
“What?” I shriek, now realizing he wasn’t with me when I walked Zane inside. “What did you say? What did he say?”
“I told him to quit playing games with you or I would fuck him up, then I walked away.” Brenton shrugs, but his posture is anything but nonchalant. “Why the hell was he calling you Jailbird?”