Page 58 of Scoring Eden

Alex: Check out this house on Zillow! *link*

SIXTEEN

EDEN

“Mom! Have you seen my black fedora?"

“Which one, buddy? The herringbone one or the one with the gray striped ribbon?” I ask, bouncing on one leg as I pull on my socks in the living room.

It’s been two days since the soccer game, and I’m officially back to reality.

Macon yawns, lingering in the doorway to his bedroom. He’s never been much of a morning person—something he inherited from me. “Gray striped.”

I tug my sock too hard, lose grip, and slap myself in the face. Well, at least it’s on now. Inside out and back to front, but we’re already running late, and I can’t be bothered to fix it. “Is it not on your hat stand?”

His little eyebrows draw tight. “No. Maybe I left it at Dad’s.”

The mention of his father churns my gut. Although Sebastian has stopped blowing up my phone in the week that has passed since the soccer game, and he hasn’t reached out about setting up a meeting, his silence makes me uneasy, especially since the last thing he left me was a threat.

He may have deleted the message, but screenshots are forever. And thankfully, I thought quickly enough to take one.

“Can’t you wear your herringbone one instead today?”

Macon frowns down at his houndstooth jacket. “The patterns will clash.”

My son is going into show business one day, I just know it.

“The olive-green one would look cool,” I tell him, glancing at the clock. Shit, we should have left for school ten minutes ago. “Go grab it, then get your shoes on. We’ve really gotta go.”

I shove two pieces of bread into the toaster and rub my stinging cheek. It’s a breakfast-in-the-car kind of day today—a situation that happens far more often than it should.

Sebastian would have something to say about that if he knew.

Macon reappears, dressed like he’s going hunting in the English countryside, his olive fedora tipped at an angle. It’s by design, of course. The tilt gives him a little extra flair, so he tells me, and who am I to disagree?

In my eyes, the kid looks awesome, fedora tilted or not.

He slips his feet into a new pair of brogues and grins. “Ready.”

“Are you okay to wait in the car for me? I’ve just got to butter the toast, and I’ll be right down.”

I toss him the car keys, and he catches them with a proud whoop.

My chest heaves from urgency as I get to work on the toast. In the recesses of my mind, Sebastian berates me for being a shitty mother who cares more about her sleep than getting her son to school on time, but I tell him to fuck off.

Not today, Satan.

His chiding persists anyway. It’s there every time I make a mistake. As is the fear that every tiny fuck-up I’ve made will be used against me in court to prove I’m not a fit enough parent to raise Macon on my own.

It doesn’t matter that we’re barely ever late for school, regardless of how often he eats breakfast in the car. And I forget about the fact that his homework is always done and that I show up to every single one of his performances, parent-teacher conferences, and field days. Every imperfection of mine as a mother is another blade Sebastian wouldn’t hesitate to use against me.

Which is bullshit, I know.

Because no parent is perfect. We’re all fucking up our kids in one way or another, so we should focus less on being perfect parents and think more about the perfect moments.

But Sebastian wouldn’t know any of that. He hasn’t parented Macon a day in his life.

Macon screams.