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I’m the exact opposite. I schedule my life down to the second. I don’t have much of a choice as a single mom working two jobs, but still.
Nick was always carelessly composed, completely comfortable with assuming everything would work out the way he wanted.
I’m sure he could have shown up to his meeting—if there really is a meeting—hours later and convinced everyone the delay was their fault.
I try and fail to care this outing might mean he could show up while I’m gone and think I changed my mind about continuing this conversation. If he’s dissuaded that easily, he doesn’t deserve to be part of Leo’s life anyway. I’m not sure he deserves to even if he does show up. A reply to a question about meeting your child for the first time shouldn’t include the wordcomplicated.
But I know what growing up without a father is like. It’s not something I want for my own child. The second-guessing, the self-doubts, the what-ifs. It was one thing when Leo was younger and easily accepted it was just the two of us.
AJ is his best friend, and he only has a mom as well. But June has photos of her late husband holding her son. Has extended family bursting with stories of what AJ’s father was like to help keep his memory alive.
I have none of that. Leo has none of that. And the older he gets, the more gaping of a hole in his life that will become.
Unlike me, conceived out of my mother’s desperation to access drugs she couldn’t afford, Leo was created from love. He doesn’t have a deadbeat drug dealer who accepts questionable forms of currency for a father.
Nick is cultured. Charming. Smart. Wealthy.
I never considered whether or not he would be a good father when we were together. But he’s the guy every young kid dreams of having as a dad—effortlessly good at everything. Cool and charismatic.
I want that for Leo, more than anything. Enough that I’ll swallow my pride and make it as easy as possible for Nick to be a part of his life.
He showed up less than a day after learning Leo exists.
That means something—I hope.
It starts to snow right as I park in front of Leo’s school. I zip my coat all the way up before stepping out of the warm car and hurrying across the lot, trying to move fast enough to temper the chill in the air.
Leo is sitting in one of the plastic chairs that line the far wall of the office when I enter. Hot air hits me in a dry puff, washing away the remnants of cold air clinging to my clothes. I smile at Mrs. Nelson, the receptionist, before crouching down next to his chair.
“Hey, buddy. How are you feeling?”
“I’m okay. I told Mrs. Gables not to call you at work.”
Something twists in my chest as I scan his worried expression. Worried aboutme, not himself.
I hide my burdens from him the best I can. He’s a kid. He shouldn’t have to worry about rent or car payments or insurance or anything that keeps me up at night.
But he’s asmartkid. He notices anyway.
“I’m glad she did,” I tell him, knocking my shoulder against his. “I have the afternoon off. I was going to pick you up after school. Now, we get extra time together.” I stand. “Let me just sign you out.”
I make small talk with Mrs. Nelson as I sign the sheet, and then Leo and I head out into the parking lot. For a second, the cold feels good, before it turns frigid.
We rush across the asphalt, over the light layer of white that’s already coated the gray.
Leo sniffles a few times as I drive home, but otherwise seems to be in good spirits. I park in the lot at the end of our block that charges half as much as the landlord does for one of the building’s spots, praying the snow doesn’t accumulate too much. If Leo is too sick to go to school in the morning, I’ll have to coordinate the logistics of his care. Having to clear off my car will only make my morning more hectic.
A black van and a red Mini Cooper are parked directly in front of the building, flouting theNo Parkingsign posted, but there’s no sign of the SUV Nick got into the back of earlier. The back—because he has an actualdriver. I knew he was well-off. He told me his parents were wealthy, but I can’t picture Nick living off a trust fund.
Once we’re back in the apartment, I send Leo off to wash his hands and change into pajamas. I bustle around the kitchen, making hot chocolate and putting a bag of popcorn in the microwave, stealing glances at the clock on the stove.
It’s been more than two hours.
That shouldn’t disappoint me. It should be the expected outcome. A relief, free from complications.
The microwave dings, indicating the popcorn is ready.
A second later, the sound of gunfire erupts. It’s been years—decades—since I’ve heard a gunshot, but it’s impossible to confuse with anything else.
