Pretty Little Thing (Central Valley U)

Work without Orion is torture; it makes me wonder how I ever managed it before he came along. My time with him in the VIP room was my prize for making it through the week.

Some girls love stripping—power to them, truly—but for me, it’s an efficient way to make ends meet. A way to make sure my son is taken care of while also enabling me to afford him the future he deserves.

The problem is, I never realized how much I hated it until Orion came along. Before him, I danced, made my money, and went home. Before him, the lewd comments and hungry eyes didn’t bother me—but now, it just makes me feel dirty.

Better suck it up, Frankie, because until you get your degree, dirty pays the bills.

Either way, it’s a problem for future Frankie to deal with, because tonight is going to be all about Maverick and studying. Worrying can wait.

I make it to the car line with seconds to spare, which is fine with me, since I always have to get out and help Maverick buckle. A lot of times, other moms honk at me, but not today—perks of being last, I suppose.

“Did you have a good day?” I ask, once I’m back behind the wheel.

“Yeah!” He kicks his feet and his toes tap against my seatback. “We got to finger paint!”

That explains the new additions to his shirt. “What did you paint?”

“Us, Mama. Our family.”

“You and me?” Please say yes, please.

“And O, Mama. He’s my papa bear.”

“Mav, baby,” I say, though I can barely hear my own voice over the sound of my heart disintegrating in my chest. “You know Orion’s not your dad, right?”

I wait with bated breath and a white knuckle grip on the wheel for his reply. But he’s in no hurry, and by the time he finally answers me, we’re nearly home.

“I know, Mama, but we never talk about my dad, and I like O. He’s real nice. And he’s smart and funny and strong. He’d be a good dad.”

How many times can a heart break?

“I’m sorry, Mav,” I whisper, pulling into my designated parking spot and throwing the car into park. “Ask me anything.”

“What was his favorite color? Did he like broccoli? Was he tall? Will I be tall? Did he really love me—like a lot? Who was his favorite Batman baddie?”

“Slow down, bud.” I turn off the radio and unbuckle, twisting around to face him. “His favorite color was green—like the color of the Hulk. But despite loving the color green, he hated all green food. Lettuce, broccoli, green beans—he hated all of it. Your daddy was tall.”

“How tall?” Maverick interrupts. “Like taller than Uncle Phin?”

“About the same height, so even though I’m short, I bet you’ll be tall.”

“Yes!” He pumps his fist into the air. “One day you’ll need a stool to be as big as me!”

“Definitely. And, Mav, your dad loved you so much. From the moment we found out you were growing in my belly, he was excited. He actually picked out your name. He was so excited to be a dad—to be your dad.”

“For really?” He leans forward as far as his car seat harness will allow.

“Really.” I glance away from him and pinch the bridge of my nose, willing my tears away. “And, Mav, I’m sorry I haven’t talked much about him, but I want you to know, you are always—and I mean always—welcome to ask me anything about him.”

He crosses his arms and narrows his eyes. “You forgot to answer one of my questions.”

“Did I?”

“His favorite Batman baddie!”

“Oh.” A half laugh, half sob lodges in my throat. Maverick’s innocence is truly a thing of wonder. “He loved the Joker.”

“Me, too!” Maverick screams. “We’re just alike, huh, Mama?”

More than you know, my sweet boy, I think, my tears flowing down my cheeks unchecked. Talking with him like this has been a long time coming. And while it hurts me to even think about Tyson, Maverick deserves to know his dad.

He deserves to know what a wonderful, kind, caring, and compassionate man his father was.

“You are, Mav. Your dad was my best friend in the whole world, and while losing him was so hard, you healed me, bud. You are every single good part of him, and anytime I miss him, I know I can snuggle you.”

My son’s nose crinkles. “Is that why you hug me so much?”

“Yeah, baby.” I sniffle and wipe beneath my eyes. “And just because I love you.”

“I love you, too.” He tugs at his buckle. “But I’d love you even more if we could go inside and have a snack.”

Leave it to a four-year-old to make me laugh and cry in the same conversation. “You got it.”

“How about yogurt?” I ask, unclipping his harness. He passes me his bag and scrambles out of the car.