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The little boy grins up at me. His face is smeared with dirt, which his mother – Sienna – swipes at with her sleeve.
She’s looking everywhere but at me. Her accomplice in crime, the woman I saw the other night with all the children, slowly backs out the door, hissing at her three children to follow.
“But I want to play!” the boy whines.
“Not today,” the woman says, falsely cheerful. “We have, ah, plans. See you, Sienna!”
She tugs him out and the door slams closed. That cheerful fucking bell jangles, and this cheerful little guy grins up at his mom, babbling away. I think he might be attempting to communicate with both of us, but the only word I can make out with any clarity is ‘Mama.’
And, given the child’s approximate age, cloudy skin, and green eyes, I think I can guess who ‘Dada’ is.
I don’t know what to feel. Stunned, because what the fuck, Sienna. Furious, because what thefuck, Sienna.
Then the boy giggles to himself and my heart melts. I can literally feel it turning to goo in my chest. I realize that this is why people coo like imbeciles at babies; they have to condense this strange, overwhelming, heartrending tenderness into words. It’s impossible.
I have a son.
“What the f–”
“Language,” she says absently. She still won’t look at me.
That’s fine. I’m not sure I can look at her directly right now, anyway. Looking at the sun would be a better bet. It would certainly hurt less.
I step closer to him, cautiously, as if he were as prone to running away like his mother. I don’t want to frighten him, I just want a closer look.
He doesn’t run away, but he ducks into his mother’s shoulder with a shy laugh.
“Is he mine?” My voice is so low I almost don’t hear it myself, but Sienna does. I almost don’t want to ask—I’m not sure what I’ll do if she says no.
She finally meets my eyes.
She doesn’t deny it.
“Ris,” she says, voice shaking. “Meet Ezra.”
Ezra peeks out at me and gives a bashful smile before diving back against Sienna’s chest.
“Can I hold him?”
At first she clutches him tighter, but she nods and hands him off with a warning. “He can take a bit to warm up to—”
He flies at me, babbling excitedly. But it isn’t my charming personality that’s won him over. It’s my eyebrow ring. I deftly dodge his hands, so he plays with my nose and lips instead.
“Ezra—”
“It’s fine.” And it is. As he explores my face, I explore his, drinking in every twitch of expression. It’s bizarre to see your own eyes in someone else’s face, and I think I spy his mother’s grin.
He reaches for my piercing again and I offer my finger to hold instead.
“You’ve got good taste, don’t you, little guy?”
“Mamabato,” he agrees, eyes still on the prize. “Dodobo.”
“Indeed.”
“He likes you,” Sienna says.
That shouldn’t make me as pleased as it does. How old is he, two? He’s currently trying to eat my shirt. I’m not sure he’s the most sterling judge of character.
