My Son's Sitter

“It’s fine,” I say.

Really, I’m a bit worried. It’s already seven o’clock as it is; what am I going to do if I have to stay too late at his place? The buses don’t run indefinitely and it’s a long bus ride as it is.

Don’t worry, worse comes to worst, you can just stay over at his place tonight, a taunting little voice in my head says.

A shiver eats away at me. No. It won’t come to that. It can’t.

The errands don’t take too long. It’s almost fun, rolling Winston in the cart up and down the aisles while Clayton picks up what he needs.

Once we finally amble into the car, I’m not sure what time it is. Although it’s definitely late, the sky outside is dark. No sooner have we pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road, then does Winston almost immediately fall asleep beside me.

“Come up here,” Clayton says from the front, patting the seat beside him.

“Ok, just pull over and I’ll come around up there,” I reply.

He shoots me an utterly unimpressed look, as if I’ve said the lamest thing of the century.

“You really think I can’t steer the car properly enough for the next ten seconds for you to be able to climb up here safely?”

When I don’t immediately respond, he adds, “trust me.”

That’s just the problem. I don’t trust him, and I certainly don’t trust myself. Nevertheless, my body obeys before my mind can think of a good excuse not to.

Once I’ve sat beside him, Clayton aims a smile my way.

“See, that wasn’t so bad—”

The next word is smacked out of his lips as he hurtles the car to the side to avoid hitting the suddenly stopped van ahead of us. Our car shoots over two lanes before settling on the road shoulder.

Meanwhile, the navy blue van, which stopped for seemingly no reason at all, now has its emergency flashers on.

It takes me a minute to realize that the reason I’m shaking is that I’m terrified.

Clayton puts his hand on top of my clawed one, sending a shiver to join the shakes.

“You okay?”

He says it to me while he cranes his head back at Winston, who is still obliviously asleep.

“Shit, that was close,” he says, his brow furrowing, “just a few more seconds and…” His face crumples in painful-looking guilt. “I’m an idiot. I could’ve killed all of us.”

I place my hand on top of his.

“But you didn’t. You reacted just in time.”

His hand under mine is tightly balled as if he didn’t hear me.

As the minutes tick on, a volatile silence descends. Although the almost-crash already happened, it still feels like it’s lingering, hovering over us. When we pull up to Clayton’s four-car garage, he turns to me. Surprise flashes over his face, as if he forgot I was here at all.

“You want to come in?”

There’s a gentle sort of tenderness to his voice. But, I shake my head.

“I probably shouldn’t. It’s getting late.”

Clayton nods, almost as if he hadn’t heard me.

“But could you?”

This time, he says the words even more softly. As if it would be too much to actually hope for me to say yes.

“Okay, but just for a little,” I cave.

He doesn’t respond. He’s already gotten out of the car and scooped Winston up in his arms.

As Clayton conveys his son to the house, one of Winston’s eyes half opens and slides to his dad.

“Hello sleepy,” Clayton says, fumbling with the key.

“Here. I can do that,” I say.

He shoots me a grateful smile as I take the metal thing and turn it in the lock.

Inside, it takes all of five minutes for us to tuck Winston into bed. His sheets are little red rockets in perpetual flight on a blue comforter canvas.

Even after Winston’s little eyes have drooped closed and a contented smile eases onto his lips, Clayton still hovers by his bedside. His eyes still haven’t left his son’s face. Even in the dull light, the adoration on his face is unmistakable.

It feels prying seeing him like this. I’ve just turned away, when he says “Kids — there’s something really special about them.”

He says it almost in a surprised way, like if had you had asked this question to him a few years ago, he would’ve given you a different response.

“They are,” I say, “but I’ve got to get…”

Without warning, he takes me by the arm. Conveying me to the stairs, he shoots me a warm casual look.

“Sorry,” he says, as if remembering himself, letting go of my arm, “it’s just… That near crash really shook me. My Winston, my son…”

His eyes close and his teeth grit together. It looks like every tendon in his body is standing out, like feverish worms under his skin.

“Would it be too much for you to stay the night?”

At the words I feared most, I find my voice has left me.