Page 10

I take Theo’s hand as we head inside. I grab his backpack from the row of tiny hooks and sling it over my shoulder.

“How was your day?” I ask.

“Good. I painted. And had goldfish snack,” he says proudly.

I wait while he climbs into the truck on his own because he insists on “doing it myself.”

Once he’s buckled, I pull out my phone and text Blaire.

Blaire Thomas

Just picked up Theo.

I’ll be at the donuts thing.

My dad will still want to come.

Sounds good.

My interaction with Richard has been minimal since Blaire got pregnant. For the first year or so, he and Kathryn still invited me over every Saturday for dinner. I turned them down every time. Didn’t know where I fit anymore. Didn’t know if I was welcome or just tolerated.

Eventually, the invites stopped.

Theo’s first year was confusing. Blaire was breastfeeding, so Theo couldn’t be away from her for long. I’d missed most of the pregnancy because of deployment, and then I felt like I’d stepped into something already in motion, and struggled to figure out where I belonged.

Blaire and I never talked about why I’d left her, which makes everything between us and her family feel even more awkward. I see them at birthdays, at T-ball games, and at preschool events. I avoid them whenever I can to avoid feeling their disappointment, because I’ve gotten more cowardly as I’ve gotten older.

Theo is talking a mile a minute as I unlock the front door. Something about a movie he watched with Blaire. Dinosaurs, I think. I only catch maybe every third word.

“That sounds cool, bud,” I say, pushing the door open.

He barrels inside.

The house is too big for just the two of us. I bought it right after Blaire told me she was pregnant, I figured I couldn’t exactly raise a kid out of a barracks room. At the time it felt like I was doing something responsible. Theo’s room is the only space that looks lived in. Filled with toys, books, glow in the dark star stickers. The rest of the house is basic.

Veronica talks constantly about “warming it up,” she’s always pointing out that I could at least throw some art up on the walls and make it look like someone actually lives here.

Someone does live here. He’s three and currently kicking his shoes off in the middle of my kitchen before digging through the pantry like we starve him.

“Dude, put your stuff away,” I say, grabbing his shoes and tossing them into the basket by the door.

He turns to face me, holding an apple in one hand.

“I call mama?” he asks, his eyes already glossy.

I sigh.

I check the time. Blaire should be home from work by now.

“We can call her now if you want,” I say.

He nods, lip trembling just slightly.

“Alright.” I pull my phone from my pocket, find Blaire’s contact, and hit call.

She answers on the second ring. “Hey.”

“Hey,” I say quietly. “He wants to talk to you.”