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When I stiffen, August unfurls a clenched fist, using it to clench the wrist I have dangling over his shoulder. With a squeeze that says bothcalm down, womanandit’s okay,Mama, he repeats himself, “I forgot my helmet.”
Something throbs behind my eyes as I squint at the man I once misguidedly thought I loved more than anything. “You couldn’t go back for it?”
John shrugs. “Actions have consequences, Sunday.”
I know that, dickhead. Do you?
Running a hand through August’s hair—for my own comfort more than his—I nudge him towards the team. “Go ask Coach Morgan if he has any spare, okay?”
He grasps the invitation to escape with both hands, tearing away like a bat out of hell, the idea of saying goodbye to the man responsible for half his DNA not even crossing his mind. I wait until he’s out of earshot, until he’s tugging on Cass’ hand, before turning to the biggest lapse in judgment I’ve ever had. “What is wrong with you?”
“What?” The bastard, the little fucking bastard, lifts his shoulders again, the tips of his ratty blond hair brushing them. “He forgot it, not me.”
“He’seleven.”
“Exactly. Old enough to know better.” Nicotine-stained fingertips rise, making me flinch when they tug on my hair. “You baby him.”
Baby, support. Baby, love. Baby, remind him to bring his gear to practice because he’s the scatterbrained child and I’m the responsible adult and that’s just the way it is sometimes.
Potato, potatoh.
“Who is that?”
Frowning at the abrupt subject change, I spin to follow John’s line of sight—or his line ofscowl, more accurately. As quickly as my gaze lands on the man handing my kid a spare helmet, dropping to one knee so he can help him adjust it, I avert it. “The assistant coach,” I answer vaguely, internally cringing at the rasp in my voice.Who I did some nefarious things with right around the time you were threatening to take my son away from me so really, my rare show of recklessness was your fault.
When John makes like he’s gonna go over there—to do what, God knows; introduce himself, or maybe curse Cass out for threatening August’s masculinity by lending him a freaking helmet—the dread that settles in my gut at the thought of them interacting damn near drives me to vomit.
Getting far closer to John than I ever prefer to be, I latch onto his arm and gently tug him in the other direction, towards the parking lot. “Thanks for dropping him off. I’ll see you next month?”
He only lets me drag him a handful of steps before shaking me off. “What, I don’t get to stay?”
After he almost got August benched?Hmmm. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“I wanna watch him play.”
Since when?It’s not hard to instantly recall how many games John has attended in the past—zero is a very easy number to remember.
“I didn’t fly out here for one fucking night with him, Sunday.”
No. He flew here for two. So much better. “You can’t do this. You can’t show up just to upset him.”
John’s snort is as infuriating as it is dismissive. “Fuck off, Sunny. He’s too damn sensitive and you know it. Spending all his time with you ain’t good for him.”
Spending time with the only parent who actually fucking loves him isn’t good for him. Interesting logic.
“Him being separated from his daddy ain’t right. Everyone agrees.”
Jesus, talk about striking a nerve. “And who the hell iseveryone?”
“Our mamas. Your daddy.” He coughs, wise enough to hesitate before adding, “Clare.”
It takes everything in me not to scream and stomp my feet like a toddler.
Clare. FuckingClare. The reason John suddenly decided to care about being a father—it can’t be a coincidence that when she came into John’s life, he re-entered ours. The woman who’s been nothing but a thorn in my side for years. Not because she’s John's fiancée—Lord knows she’s welcome to him—but becauseshe’sJohn's fiancée. Meaning I’m not, and doesn’t everyone have something to say about that? Mama wept when they got engaged. Daddy, according to Mama, locked himself in his study with a bottle of bourbon. Both of them, and everyone else in our small, shitty town, wondered what the hell was wrong with me; not even after bringing his child into the world can I keep a man.
But the additional scrutiny of my life she caused is not why I can’t stand Clare.Clareis why I can’t stand Clare. Her inane need to parent my kid, a kid she’s only met a handful of times, a kid she spends more time reprimanding than getting to know. Her love of bringing me down to make herself look better, and doing it in front of August. Her…Clare-ness.
I hate her.
