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Chapter17
Ethan
“Does that guy have a GoPro?” I slide my head around the person sitting in front of me, trying to get a better look at one of the dads in the front row.
“What’s a GoPro?” my mother asks beside me, following my line of sight.
Shaking my head, I crinkle the program in my hands again, fighting off my anxiousness. “A camera made for action shots. People strap them to their bike helmets while riding or surfboards while surfing, for example, so they can record themselves in action. I just never thought I’d see a parent using one at a kindergarten play.”
My mother snickers beside me. “Well, maybe his kid has a rather physical role and wanted to catch him or her in action.”
I look over at her as she grins. “You do know what this play is about, don’t you?”
“Yes.” She rolls her eyes at me. “Will you relax, Ethan? I’m going to find another seat if you can’t get yourself together.”
“I’m fine,” I lie as I glance back to the door of the auditorium for the hundredth time. Amelia hasn’t arrived yet, and even though I know she wouldn’t miss this, a part of me wishes she would so she could give me a reason to justify why we can’t be together—a reason other than the fact that I’m a miserable human being that is using my past experiences as an excuse for avoiding moving on with my life in a productive and healthy manner.
No, you don’t. You want her to show up for Oliver. You want her to prove that she’ll keep her word. You want her to continue to be the woman that she’s already proven herself to be.
But then, if she does, that still makes you look like an idiotic ass, which is the real problem, right?
“You are far from fine, son, but I’m banking on the fact that you’ll figure that out sooner rather than later.” She pats my leg. “By the way, Amelia is already here.”
“What?” My head spins so fast on my neck that I almost fall out of my chair. But sure enough, tucked in the back corner is a mane of curly blond hair that I’m surprised I missed.
“She walked in about ten minutes ago, but I was having too much fun watching you squirm.”
“You wonder why I parent the way I do,” I retort before glancing back at Amelia. And then the ache in my chest magnifies like the size of an earthquake on the Richter scale.
With glasses pushed up her nose, Amelia studies the pamphlet in her lap, smiling as she reads through the information. She’s wearing a tan sweater under a black jacket, far more of her covered up than I’m used to seeing since the weather has finally turned in Southern California. But she looks stunning nonetheless—the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, and I let her walk away from me.
The past two weeks have been torture, my mood shifting worse than it did after Monica left, which should tell me something. But I’ve been too fucking stubborn to accept what I already know deep down—I never should have let Amelia go.
The thing is, she’s the one that walked away, and I can be as pissed about it as much as I want, but she made the decision based on what was best for her; something that’s taken me this long to realize.
However, I know it wasn’t what’s best for Oliver or me because we’ve both been miserable without her around.
My son has been acting out, screaming and crying when he asks for her, and I tell him that she won’t be coming over or that we can’t go to her house. I hate the fact that he’s hurting too, and that’s exactly what I was trying to avoid by introducing him to another woman in the first place.
But can I really say that I regret it? No. I don’t regret one moment of our time with Amelia, except for the fact that I can’t give her everything that she wants and deserves.
The lights dim, signaling the start of the play as my mother pats my shoulder to get my attention.
“You can talk to her later.”
“And what do I say that I already haven’t said?” I whisper back to her.
“You can thank her for showing up for your son, Ethan, because honestly, isn’t that the most important part about tonight? Her being here for him because she said she would. Lord knows Monica would never do that…” She arches a brow at me and then faces forward as the curtains draw back and reveal Oliver’s entire kindergarten class on stage.
I take a deep breath, smile at the sight of my kid dressed as a doctor, and settle into my chair as pride and irritation emanate from my gut—pride for my kid, but also irritation with myself that Amelia isn’t sitting next to me as we watch him together.
About twenty minutes pass before Oliver finally gets to say his part. I lean forward in my chair, lift my phone up to record, and hold my breath when he starts to speak.
“Doctors are helpers in our community who help us feel better when we are sick or if we get hurt. Doctors wear scrubs or lab coats so they can move quickly and to hold their tools.” He opens up the lab coat he’s wearing and points to the thermometer in his pocket and stethoscope around his neck. “Doctors will examine you on a bed or table and give you medicine to help you feel better if your body hurts. But not all doctors fix broken bones or colds. Some doctors help you fix your feelings.”
He takes off the coat, grabs a pair of fake glasses out of his pocket and puts them on, and then grabs a notepad and a pen from the table to his right. “A doctor called a therapist helps you talk about your feelings and fix problems we have on the inside, like a broken heart or when you’re scared about something in your life. I know a doctor of feelings, and she’s the best.” He waves to Amelia in the corner of the room, and I take that moment to look back at her, finding her recording him as well as she dabs her eye with a tissue.
The entire audience follows his line of sight and chuckles lightly as she waves back at him.
And I swear, I have something in my eye again. I think I need to get that checked out.
Choking back my emotions, I stare forward again just in time to see Oliver pick up his lab coat and scurry off the stage so the next group of kids can come up and sing a song about doctors.
“Now that was enough to make any father proud,” my mother says next to me.
“Yeah. The kid has a heart of gold…”
“And a soft spot for Amelia.”
“Well, he’s not the only one…”
* * *
