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That’s why when Willow announced she was swapping the suburbs of Chicago for the small town housing her alma mater—some old college friend offered her a job she couldn’t refuse—I didn’t wanna make the same mistake twice. I was so quick, probably too damn quick, to follow. We made a road trip of it, August and Pickle and I, spending our Christmas driving to Illinois—a pit stop I’ve since lived to regret—before tackling the rest of the journey.
We might not be living in perfect conditions right now but it’s a lot better than what we had. I’ve gotten a glimpse of the good life and I just don’t want it to go to shit so quickly.
“Sorry.” Willow scoots closer, nose scrunching as she pokes my thigh. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“It’s okay. I’d rather know, anyway.” Only thing worse than people talking about you? Not knowing that they’re doing it.
Only half-joking, Willow offers, “Need me to run out and get more ingredients?”
Yes. Please. Facilitate me soothing my inner turmoil through the art of creaming butter.“Nah. I gotta go to August’s tournament soon.”
Willow grimaces, and before she even speaks, I know it has nothing to do with August or his tournament or the coach running the tournament, and everything to do with one particular unexpected attendee. “John's gonna be there?”
I mimic my sister’s less-than-pleased expression. “He’s dropping him off.”
I’m not sure who was more surprised—or disappointed—when August’s father actually showed up last night; me or my kid. I really thought John was bullshitting about the weekend custody thing. Flying in from Texas once a month when, just a meager couple of months ago, he couldn’t be bothered to walk the ten minutes between our houses? In what world does that make sense? But with a honk of a horn, I stood corrected. And irritated; nothing says ‘committed to friendly co-parenting’ like idling outside our apartment block, hammering on the horn until August ran outside. Upset, too, because August-less nights are not something I’m accustomed to, and the half a tray’s worth of chocolate cookies I consumed did nothing to fill the void his absence left.
“You want me to come?”
Considering almost every conversation we have regarding the father of my child involves Willow calling him a ‘filthy grooming pervert,’ I’m not sure that’s the best idea. “I know you’re a good lawyer but I think there’ll be too many witnesses to argue yourself out of a murder charge.”
Like the child she really is, Willow wiggles her brows dramatically. “Cass Morgan is rich. Do whatever you did that makes him look at you the way he does again and I’m sure he’d pay them off.”
I snort. “He looks at me like he’s figuring out the best place to hide a body.”
“He doesn’t have to think too hard about that.” Willow stands, rounding the back of the sofa to grind her knuckles against the top of my head. “Yours would fit in a shoebox.”
Short jokes from a woman barely two inches taller than me.
Always hilarious.
* * *
The moment I arrive, I know something is wrong.
“Fuck.” Nausea climbs up my throat as I scan the field again and again, every time coming up empty, my kid nowhere to be seen. “Fuck, fuck,fuck.”
“Language, Ms. Lane.”
Jolting in surprise, I force myself to smile at the kid who’s suddenly materialized beside me. “Sorry, kiddo.”
Isaac’s wide grin puts my sorry excuse for one to shame. “Where’s August?”
Great question.“I’m not sure.”
He should be here. John said he would be here. He promised he’d be on time, dismissed me as ‘nagging too much’ when I stressed the importance of being on time, ignored the subsequent messages reminding him to be on time. When I check my phone for the umpteenth time, it’s still a sea of unread messages, not a single acknowledgement there to soothe me.
“Did John forget about the tournament?”
My head whips towards Isaac, my lips parting in surprise, my mind momentarily forgetting this is a sixth-grader I’m talking to, not an adult to discuss the horrible intricacies of August’s parental situation with. “August told you about his dad?”
Either oblivious to or politely ignoring my shock, Isaac shrugs. “Kinda.”
Downright stunned, I blink at the only person—to my knowledge—that August has ever willingly talked about his father with. “What did he say?”
I don’t get to find out if the sanctity of secrets shared between childhood friends holds strong between this kid and mine—before Isaac can spill, or maybe not, we’re interrupted.
“Everything okay?” A deep voice reluctantly grumbles as large hands, so recognizable to me for all the wrong reasons, clamp down on Isaac’s shoulders.
