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I breathe deep as my forehead hits the steering wheel, the scent of my lavender air freshener filling my nostrils. “I just need a second.”
“Mama?” August pokes my shoulder before cupping it, shaking me gently. “Mama, stop.”
I can’t. I’m a freaking fountain. All I can do is grip the wheel hard enough to hurt and try to keep my cries from developing into full-on sobs.
“Stop,” August repeats, his grip tightening. “Is this about John?”
His question catches me so off-guard, I pause mid-sob. “What about John?”
“I told him I didn’t wanna go.”
I twist to face him, suddenly not so concerned about hiding my tears. Probably because they’re about to dissipate due to the brewing wave of anger heating my skin. “Go where, August?”
“To Texas.” My ashen kid swallows. “This weekend. Instead of him coming here, he wanted me to go to him. I said no, obviously, because it’s Coach Morgan’s birthday and it’s your-”
“Goose, when did he tell you this?”
August is silent for a moment. “The last time he was here.”
“What?”
“I didn’t tell you ‘cause I said no! And when he called last week, he told me he bought the ticket but I told him I couldn’t go.I don’t wanna go.”
I swear, I hear my brain goping.
When it rains, it freaking pours.
“I don’t wanna go,” August repeats for the third time, sounding like he’s not far from tears himself, and I hate John so damn much I could strangle him.
I can’t believe he’s doing this again. Trying to snatch my kid away, all sneaky and underhanded because he knows,he freaking knows, it’s wrong. He just doesn’t care.
Covering the hand still resting on my shoulder, I reach towards my teary-eyed boy, drag him close enough to kiss his forehead. “You’re not going anywhere,” I’m forced to promise him again, forced to soothe doubt that should never be created.
With another kiss and a deep breath, I let him go. I unbuckle my seatbelt and I get out the car, locking it behind me so August can’t follow. Knuckles tapping against the window go ignored as I unlock my phone and tap a thumb to the number that’s been plaguing me so much more often than usual; I guess I know why now.
Ironically, it takes three tries before he answers. When he sighs and snaps, “What?” like I’m the one inconveniencing him, my rage fuckingsoars.
“You ever do something like this again and our agreement is off.”
“Jesus, Sunday,” John sighs again, and I’ve never known a noise to sound so condescending. “This is how you return my calls? I don’t even get ahello?”
“You’ll get a restraining order if you ever try to put my son on a plane without my permission again.”
Mild irritation intensifies to a rage that matches mine. “Yourson,” he scoffs. “Again with that shit. You’re so fucking selfish, you know that, Sunday? This custody agreement is bullshit.”
“Thiscustody agreementdoesn’t exist.” He has no custody. No claim to it, either. Because he’s as much August’s father in the eyes of the law as he is to August or me. “Any time I allow you to spend with my son—” Okay, that one was a little petty, “—is acourtesy.”
“When’re you gonna stop punishing me, huh? I made a mistake. I wasn’t ready to be a dad. I was a kid.”
“And what the fuck was I, John?”Iwas the child. He just had the emotional capacity of one. “Why now? Why do you suddenly give a fuck?”
The longer he takes to respond, the more I dread the answer. “Clare wants to start a family.”
“So start one.”Leave mine alone.
“She said I can’t be a proper father until I fix things with August. She said it’s important to her that August knows his siblings.”
She said. NotI want. He doesn't actually care; he just wants to score points with his fiancée. “This isn’t the way to do that, John. You do not fix things bykidnapping him.”
