Page 52 of Nocturnes & Nightmares

Worry blooms in my chest. “Oli? What’s wrong, baby?”

His brows come together as he lets out a quiet whimper, and for a moment, I think he’s going to open his mouth and speak for the first time in months. Instead, he breaks into a quiet sob.

“Oliver? Did something happen last night?” My first thought is that I let a man, a stranger, into my house, and passed out drunk while my son was left alone with him. The kind of thing only a truly shitty mom would do.

A thought that stirs nausea in my gut, as I watch him curl into himself, until he shakes his head, setting my guts free of the anxiety. I’ll punish myself later for my irresponsibility, but for now, my focus is finding out what makes my son, who hasn’t cried in months, suddenly break into sobbing.

“Voss didn’t come into your room, or anything?”

He shakes his head, wiping away the tears.

“Are you sad? Did you have a bad dream about your dad again?”

Again, he shakes his head.

“God, I wish you’d tell me, baby. I’d give anything to hear you tell me what’s wrong.” I stroke his hair and thumb a tear from his cheek. “Did something happen at school?”

He doesn’t answer at first, and a million days seem to slip through my head all at once, on a desperate search to remember an instance when he might’ve tried to tell me something before, and I was just too preoccupied with my own shit.

But he shakes his head.

“Do you want to write it down?”

He lets out an exasperated breath and pushes my hand away, while he sits up in bed. Just like that, his emotions are sucked away into an invisible vacuum, leaving me with more questions than answers. If I cracked this kid open, he’d probably have unaddressed anger and resentment spilling out of him like a piñata.

“Oliver … I may not be the wisest person in the world, but you’re the most important person in mine. If something’s bothering you, or if something happened, you’ll tell me, yeah?”

Tucking his knees close to his body, he nods.

“Okay. Whenever you’re ready, just … come to me. I’m all ears, okay?”

He nods again.

“Okay. I’ll see you downstairs.” I pat his leg and push up from his bed, before making my way downstairs. Every day, I feel like I’m losing the little boy who wanted nothing more than to cuddle with me when I first woke him up in the morning. As he grows older, I feel as if his heart is becoming harder, more impenetrable. That his anger has begun to outweigh his love.

After a quick breakfast, I shuffle Oliver off to school and hop in the shower. Ten minutes later, I’m out the door, wet hair and all.

On Mondays, I work afternoons, which gives me time to do some much-needed grocery shopping. Poor Oli had both heels of bread for his peanut butter sandwich this morning.

I actually hate buying food, and look forward to the day I can push a button and it all arrives in some huge pneumatic tube, conveniently organized in my refrigerator. But until then, I wheel the Explorer into an open spot at the end of the row of the grocery store lot, feeling like every other normal person who drives a fully functioning vehicle, for once in my life. No worrying about whether, or not, the damn thing will start when I leave the store.

With the extra money from Jonah and Diane, coupled with what Voss gave me, I feel like a woman who can buy the expensive granola and body wash. And another delight? Not having to worry whether, or not, the transaction will go through.

In a matter of thirty minutes, my cart is full of things that, just a week ago, I couldn’t afford, and I head to check out.

“How are you feeling, Star Wars?” The deep velvet voice tickles my ear, as I wait to unload my cart, and I turn to find Voss in line behind me.

Tall and intimidating, he looks damn near edible in his black button-down shirt and jeans. There’s something about this man I can’t quite put my finger on. Something wild and terrifying beneath that tightly-composed mask he wears, like a thunderstorm trapped behind the thin veil of a cloud. I have a feeling if ever he decided to cut loose, he’d wreak havoc on whatever crossed his path.

His basket holds a bottle of liquor, wine, some vegetables, cat kibble, which means he hasn’t gotten rid of the kitten yet, and a few granola bars. Not unusual to find him here, seeing as it’s the closest store to where we live, just strange seeing him out in public. Like running into a wolf while out in the woods.

Heat rushes over me in waves as the memories from the night before remind me I have much to be embarrassed about in this encounter.

“Not bad. Not good,” I tell him. “Am I to assume it was you who put me to bed?”

“Were you expecting someone else helped you?”

“I’m … sorry for that. I don’t drink often, but when I do, it’s a disaster. I don’t typically talk … so freely.”