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“Travis missed his last two scheduled visitations,” she says, reading the information from her screen.
“I know. Ryder was extremely disappointed.”
She pulls her eyes from the screen and looks in my direction. “Have you been allowing him to see the child outside of what has been sanctioned by the court?”
My head shakes violently. “Of course not. I haven’t even gotten so much as a text from Travis since all of this happened.”
“Where is Ryder now?”
“With my mother.”
She frowns.
“I’ve taken a second job, working a few hours in the evening so I can pay for the family law attorney,” I remind her.
“So you don’t spend much time with your son?”
I swallow, already burdened with the guilt on my own and not needing her to pile more on my shoulders.
“I leave just an hour or so before his bedtime. We spend the entire afternoon together once I pick him up from daycare.”
“How do you spend your time? Have you taken him to the movies recently? That new trampoline park?”
“I’m saving money for the attorney,” I repeat. “I don’t exactly have a lot of extra cash.”
“And what are you doing with the child support Travis provides?”
I stare at her, slow blinking. Is this woman serious right now?
“I haven’t heard from Travis since he was arrested.” I repeat my words.
“The support was court ordered.”
“I know,” I tell her, that perfected fake smile coming out in full force. “He still hasn’t paid anything.”
She looks less than pleased, and I pray she isn’t the type of woman to punish me because someone else isn’t doing what they’re supposed to. I couldn’t get Travis to help much when we still lived under the same roof. With him being fully dedicated to his alcoholism, he’s not going to use money he could spend on beer to help out with Ryder, especially when he has other people dictating how he spends time with his son. He’s always hated the police and anyone who he felt had the nerve to impose rules on him. I imagine this situation has him in a tailspin.
“Does this help my case?” I ask. “Him not complying with the court order?”
She drops her chin to her chest as if she’s used to looking over a pair of glasses. “I’m not an attorney. I can’t give you legal advice.”
She clicks a few more things on her screen before looking back at me. “Same time in two weeks?”
I nod, pulling out my phone and changing the date on the appointment already set in my phone.
I stand when she does, feeling like these meetings serve no other purpose than to make me feel like shit.
It only adds to the guilt I feel when I’m hit with a mild spark of happiness as I pull into the parking lot at work fifteen minutes later. I enjoyed my time alone in the quiet before Brent woke up, but now that he’s awake, I have another adult to talk to.
I haven’t had that in such a long time.
I can’t really talk to my mom. With her, it’s always a battle of opinions, a list of all the things I’ve ever done wrong, and how things would be so much better if only I’d listen to her.
I might’ve taken her advice many years ago if she had her life together, but she doesn’t. She’s quick to talk about Ryder needing a mom and a dad, but she’ll never be the first to bring up the fact that I didn’t have a dad growing up. My memories of my own father are so old, I can barely recall his face.
I didn’t want that for my own son. It’s what kept me sticking around so long. I gave up on Travis years ago, but I’d never give up on Ryder. I just made a seriously shitty choice in who his father is.
Chapter 12
Bishop
I shake my head, my arms trembling and threatening to make me face-plant on the linoleum floor.
The door opens, and I know it’s Sunshine without looking in her direction. She’s always on time, or at least she had been the last couple of days.
“You’re a little late,” I mutter as I shake my head again, trying and failing to get the sweat out of my eyes.
“So you thought nearly killing yourself with exercise a mere three days after waking up from a coma was a good idea?”
“Wouldn’t call this exercise,” I grumble, lowering myself to the floor. “I can’t even do a push-up right.”
“Looked good to me.”
I scoff. “Real push-ups aren’t done on your knees.”
I turn my head, relishing the cool floor against my cheek as I look over at her.
The woman is positively beautiful. I get to see her in scrubs during the day, but I live for the evenings when she’s normally in jeans or leggings.
“What are you wearing?” I ask, my eyes trailing up her bare legs.
