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He gets everything from me, I want to scream.Every damn thing. The good, the bad, it’s all me.
“All those wins must be down to your fancy coach. Cass, is it?”
I gaze longingly at the dark, liquid caffeine I’m needing more and more by the second. “Uh-huh.”
“You like him?”
August glances at me before answering the question aimed at him. “Yeah.”
Another kiss of his teeth, another dirty look my way. “Guess I don’t need to ask ifyoulike him.”
This time, it’s the little boy who’s fine pretending he doesn’t hate me who intervenes. “Can we talk about something else?”
I see it. The flick of a switch in John’s head, the impending change from sneaky asshole to outright asshole. “How’s school?”
August stiffens, and my grip on him tightens. “Fine.”
“Learn to read yet?”
“John.” How many times can I be stunned yet unsurprised in one conversation? He always does this, always pokes fun at August’s struggles, mocks instead of helps.
A couple of years ago, I asked him to help get August evaluated for dyslexia—the only time I’ve ever asked him for anything, and God knows it took a lot of me. Immediately, he erupted into some bullshit spiel about August’s generation being too soft, and‘y’all got all these fancy words for laziness now,’and‘he just has to try harder’—the same one he reenacts now.
Safe to say, he didn’t chip in. I scrimped and save and paid for August’s diagnosis all on my own, but John never misses an opportunity to make me regret asking.
I don’t know if it's better or worse, the lack of anything malicious in his tone as he rants and raves. He’s saying what he really thinks, what he really believes, and he genuinely doesn’t see the harm behind it. The ignorance. He just goes on and on and on, spouting utter nonsense while shoveling food between his flapping lips.
“How’s work?” My redirect is successful; it’s not so much the topic of conversation that’s important, but John being the one to lead it. Abandoning his spiel on the myths around learning disabilities, he moves onto how important and talented he is, the best car salesman our small town has ever seen. The prattling makes my ears bleed but if he’s preening, he’s not questioning, so I don’t give him a chance to wind down. “And how’s Clare?”
Redirect number two; not as successful. “We’re allowed talk about my relationship but not yours?”
Jesus fucking Christ.“Never mind.”
“No,” John drawls, hand raised in false surrender. “That’s fine. Clare’s good. She’d be better if she could see her step-son every now and then.”
As much as August being in any way referred to ashersmakes me want to spit fire, I remain civil. “She’s welcome to visit anytime she wants.”
“Becausewehave to cater toyouall the time, right?” John sighs and shakes his head, the combination so condescending, it makes me flinch—makes me feel like a silly teenager being chastised by her older boyfriend again. “We want August to come live with us for a while. Don’t you want that too, kiddo?”
August doesn’t miss a beat. “No.”
Of course, his refusal is my fault, as says the glare John quickly shoots me. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do.”
“C’mon,” John whines—actuallywhines. “It’ll be fun. Your mama’s gonna be so busy with the new baby, she won’t even notice you’re gone.”
Both my son and I flinch.
“You’ll just be in her way.”
“John,stop. That’s enough.”
It’s not. For him, it’s never enough. Just like it’s never actually about August; it’s always about me. “I don’t want that man around my son. I don’t like him.”
I bet he doesn’t. A man who sticks around after knocking someone up? Bet that gives John the shivers. “That’s not for you to decide.”
John scoffs. “I don’t get a say in who spends time with my son?”
