For a moment, the only sound is that stupid neon buzzing and my heart trying to claw out of my ribs.
The next day, my kid climbs up into Troka’s lap like it’s his damn job.
“I’m tall like you,” he declares, lifting his little chin. “Mama says I’m gonna be strong.”
Troka rumbles a laugh that sounds like thunder wrapped in velvet. “You already are.”
“Juice box!” I yell from the kitchen, nearly dropping the pitcher. “Hey, who wants juice?”
My voice is three octaves too high, and I fumble the cups like I’m drunk. I hustle over and shove a sippy cup in his hands like it’s a grenade I just diffused.
Later, when the kid’s down for a nap and it’s just me and Troka on the porch, he gives me a look.
The kind that scrapes the walls off your soul.
At the park, a week later, Troka chases my son around the hover-slide while I sip lukewarm caf and try not to combust.
He lifts the kid up like he weighs nothing, tossing him into the air, catching him with that unshakable strength. Laughter. Screams. Joy.
And I ache.
It’s not jealousy.
It’s terror.
This right here—this is the life I pretended I didn’t want. But now that I’ve had a taste, it’s like being half-starved and handed a feast I’m not allowed to touch.
That night, I find my son in bed with one of Troka’s old shirts balled up under his cheek.
“You miss him?” I whisper.
“Mmhm.”
“Why?”
“He smells like lava cake.”
I smile, but it’s brittle.
“He makes you laugh.”
“Yeah.”
“You love him?”
His tiny voice breaks something in me. “Iwuvhim.”
“Me too,” I whisper.
Then I press my lips to his hair and feel the guilt burn through me like acid.
Next shift, Troka walks in like he owns the galaxy again, leaning against the bar with that cocky smile and those golden eyes that never miss a damn thing.
“You look tired,” he says.
“Parenthood, baby,” I reply, snapping my gum. “It’s the new insomnia.”
He chuckles. “I could help, you know.”
