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I step closer. “You can talk to me, Say”––I grimace
––“Miss Swenson.”
A breath of laughter slips out of her, though it’s more of a whimper than anything else. “I think the fact that I can’t even hear you call me by my first name proves that I can’t. Especially about this.”
Rocking back on my heels, I glance over my shoulder toward Grady and find him at the doorway with his backpack hanging off one shoulder. And even though it kills me, I step away from Say to give her the space she’s obviously desperate to have. “I’m still here for you.”
A light pink color spreads up her neck and into her cheeks, hinting that she’s seconds from breaking down, but she doesn’t answer me. Just stares. Waiting for me to walk away. Just like I did all those years ago.
And it makes me feel like shit.
“If you can’t talk to me, I hope you find someone else you can open up to,” I tell her.
More silence.
“I’ll see ya tomorrow, Miss Swenson.”
“Bye, Owen.” She holds my gaze for a few seconds before she looks down and shifts a few papers around on her desk, desperate for busywork that’ll end our impromptu conversation that feels way too heavy for a Monday afternoon.
And even though it kills me, I turn on my heel and head over to Grady.
“Say thanks to Miss Swenson, bud.”
“Thanks, Miss Swenson!” Grady calls. Then we walk to the car while my little man talks my ear off about the soccer goal he scored at recess and that he has already finished his homework for the day. Meanwhile, I try to push aside the worry that eats at my lower gut, along with the sight of Saylor holding back tears.
For some reason, I feel like it’s all my fault again. And that isn’t acceptable. I’ve already made the girl cry enough.
“Hey, Grady, can I ask you a question?” I ask, resting my wrist on the top of the steering wheel as we drive home.
“Yeah?”
“Did Miss Swenson seem sad to you today?”
He shrugs. “I dunno.”
“Can you think of anything that happened that might’ve made her feel bad?”
Another shrug. “She was fine before Turner and me….” He glances over at me, looking guilty as hell.
“Before you what? Were you two fighting again?”
“No. We just….” With his hands in his lap, he avoids my gaze.
“Tell me, Grady.”
He sighs. “We just started talking about what’s better, dads, or moms.”
“And?”
“And I said dads were better because my mom didn’t want me, and you know how to throw a football really good. And he said moms were better because his mom makes really good chocolate chip cookies and that his dad is a––” Grady’s mouth snaps shut, and his eyes go wide as if he just got caught doing something he shouldn’t. Like swearing.
Trying to contain my smile, I prod, “You can tell me.”
“He said his dad is a…”––he drops his voice low––“asshole. Then Miss Swenson said that moms and dads can be good and bad. It just depends on the person and how seriously they take the reponsa-reponsa––”
“Responsibility,” I correct him.
“Yeah. Responsibility.”
