“By you? Always.”
I push his face away with my free hand. He lets me. His grin has not budged.
“Come eat breakfast,” I tell him, getting to my feet, “before I burn the second batch as well.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He follows me into the kitchen with that ridiculous grin still in place.
Derek is easiercompany than I expected.
He arrives at seven with a bottle of wine and a small box for Ethan that turns out to contain a wooden whistle carved into the shape of a fish. Ethan, who has been suspicious from the moment the doorbell rang, takes one look at the whistle and forgets that he doesn’t know this man.
I watch the two of them at the kitchen island while I finish the salad. Derek is tall and rangier than Grayson, dark hair starting to go silver at the temples, a quiet face that breaks easily into smiles when Ethan says something. He laughs at all the right places in Ethan’s monologue about the swimming bear he saw on television. He asks the boy follow-up questions that Ethan answers with deep seriousness.
By dessert, Ethan has decided Derek is acceptable.
By the time the plates are cleared, Ethan is tugging at my sleeve.
“Miranda. Can we play outside?”
“What about your dad’s friend?”
“He’s boring.” Ethan glances at Derek and corrects himself with great solemnity. “He’s nice. But Daddy is making him boring.”
Derek snorts into his wine.
“Go on,” Grayson says, smiling at me over Ethan’s head. “I’ll bore Derek some more.”
I scoop Ethan up on one hip and grab the foam baseball and small plastic bat from the basket by the back door.
The yard at dusk has gone soft blue, the grass cool through my socks where I kick my shoes off on the back step. The tree line at the edge of the property is maybe forty yards out. Staying closer to the house feels right, within easy sight of the kitchen window where I can see Grayson and Derek through the glass, two dark shapes at the island, Derek leaning back on a stool with his hands behind his head.
Ethan plants the bat on his shoulder.
“Pitch it slow,” he instructs.
“How slow?”
“Slower than I can hit it.”
“That defeats the purpose of the game, buddy.”
“Slow,” he insists.
I lob the foam ball in a high arc. He swings, misses, swings again, and clips it on his third try. The ball loops a few feet and lands in the grass behind him. He chases after it with shrieking laughter, scoops it up, and throws it back at me as hard as his small arm can manage.
The ball rolls about six feet.
I retrieve it and pitch again. This time, he connects properly, and the foam ball sails out in a wobbling line toward the edge of the lawn. He’s off after it before I can call his name, sturdy little legs pumping, his laugh echoing across the yard.
I laugh with him without meaning to. The sound takes me by surprise.
When was the last time I laughed in a yard?
When was the last time I was happy?
The thought arrives out of nowhere, and I sink to the ground, both palms flat against the cool grass. I am happy. The realization moves through me slow as honey. The debt is gone, the man I love is inside that house, the child I love is chasing a foam ball through the grass at my feet. There are still problems. There will always be problems. But the weight that has been so heavy on my shoulders for two years has lifted just enough that I can feel where it used to sit.
