Page 81 of Learning at 40

Waving a hand at my son, I say, “Okay, forget what I said about dads marrying moms.”

“Emma Peterson actually has two dads,” Oliver adds in, and I don’t know who Emma is or her two fathers. Yay them, but I don’t want to tackle that conversation right now either.

“What if we make River your mom? A stepmom?” I realize I’m smiling too big, and my cheeks actually hurt from the force because I want them to see this is a good thing.

“Justin Stueber has a stepmom. He says she’s evil like the one in Cinderella,” Oliver adds again.

“Who’s Cinderella?” Trevor asks. Oh boy, are we headed off course.

“Do you think River is evil?” Glancing from one boy to the next, I wonder what they think. She’s been nothing short of wonderful with them, and I haven’t had a hint they think otherwise of her.

“No.” Trevor snorts like I’m crazy.

“She’s great,” Oliver says in his best Tony the Tiger impression. Softly, I chuckle. He’s turning into quite a character.

“What makes River so great?” I’m curious. What do they love about her?

“She can talk like a pirate, build a sandcastle, and kick a soccer ball,” Trevor sings her praises in the material way.

“She hugs me,” Oliver says it so nonchalant, so matter-of-fact, my mouth falls open. Am I not affectionate enough with my child? Immediately, I know the answer, and my chest rips in half. Take my heart. Licking my lips, I rub my hands down my suit pants once more and remember how River spoke to Oliver one day.

If you want something, ask for it.

“Ollie, can I have a hug?” My voice is low, sheepish even, awaiting my own child to reject me, but just like that, he’s in my arms, his little ones around my neck. Placing my hand on his back, I hold it there, spreading my fingers and keeping my palm still. I don’t pat him. I don’t push him away too quickly. I hold my child to my chest, and my nose prickles. My eyes burn. What the hell?

Looking up, I notice Trevor watching us. There’s something in his eyes as well. The way he’s holding back like he wants what he sees, but he doesn’t ask. He doesn’t trust it or himself or something. I hold out an arm, suggesting Trevor fall in next, but he doesn’t come to me. Pressing a kiss to Oliver’s head, I slip him to my side, keeping him under my arm. Then I shift, lift, and reach for Trevor, pulling him into my other arm before settling back on the low table. Squeezing him tight to my shoulder, I mimic my hold on Oliver. With my cheek at his temple, I inhale his little boy scent and just breathe.

“I love you,” I whisper to Trevor’s hair. He nods but stiffens in my arms. The words are foreign to me as well. I don’t say them often. I can’t recall having said them until I spoke them to River, down on my knees, begging her to keep me.

“I love you, Trevor,” I say louder near his ear. His little body shudders, and I try to push him back. I want to see his face, but he keeps his head low, his forehead tucked to my shoulder. It’s then that I hear the faintest sound. Just a whimper. Trevor swipes at his face, but I don’t miss the tear running down his cheek. Allowing him his privacy, I tug him back to my chest, cupping the back of his head and kissing his hair.

“I love you,” I say one more time, pressing him even tighter to me before leaning over to Oliver and repeating the sentiment. His head is turned so his cheek rests on my shoulder. He’s been watching his brother.

Looking my son directly in the eyes, I say what’s long overdue. “I love you, too, Ollie.” Slowly, he smiles, and his finger swipes the edge of my nose where something liquid has seeped.

“I know, Dad,” he whispers. “River told me.”

Softly, I chuckle when shame should fill me. He learned it from her, just like I’m learning so many things from her and loving everything.

31

[River]

The man is so infuriating, but I love him. I exhale with the thought. It’s actually sweet that he wants to renovate my house. Insufferable, but still sweet. However, a renovation is not what I want from him. I don’t want him beholden or obligated, or any other thing. Then another thought occurs, which I don’t even want to consider but can’t help once I have it in my head.

Put a thought in the universe, and it’s here to stay, my grandfather would say. He mainly meant it in reference to being mean to others. You say something, and you can’t ever take it back. The same goes for thinking negative thoughts.

Like thinking a man wants to be with me for a house.

It’s silly. It’s ridiculous. It’s extreme. He said he loves me, but that niggling doubt is there, so when he arrives the next weekend with his boys in tow, I’m out of sorts.

The Weller men get to my place on Friday evening after I’ve worked the day shift. I’m on again tomorrow morning as well. I offered to take the day off, but Zack tells me he doesn’t want me to make any changes to my schedule. It’s sweet also, but it has my questioning-thoughts feeler on high alert.

Does he want to hang at my house . . . without me? Do his boys only want to be here for a tree fort? I hate these kinds of feelings, but I trust early and learn later. I don’t want to think this of Zack, I really don’t, but I cannot shake the rhythm. Even when we have sex that night, keeping quiet and going at it on the floor because the bed squeaks too much, I can’t rid my mind of the possibility he wants in my home because he wants his house back.

When I come home from work to find Daniel Quincy in my front yard again, I’m done.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I snap, exiting my car and hollering at Daniel before I’ve even made it up the drive. This cannot turn into a monthly occurrence of him arriving unexpectedly, uncalled for, and harassing me about the house. It’s out of control, and it’s also over. The will stated his father’s intentions.