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I open the front door and hold it as Freddy guides Isaac in. My chest is now pounding so loudly, I’m sure Freddy must be able to hear it.
“First on the right,” I tell Freddy as he takes the stairs. I follow behind, hanging back, watching the situation play out, wondering if it will be anywhere close to how I imagined it in my wildest dreams over the last ten years. A sob starts to build in my already contracted chest, a hitch of air that balloons into a bubble.
For me, this was my dream in my darkest moments. When I couldn’t fight my memories of Freddy anymore, when I regretted leaving, when I hated myself for not going back, it was a dream similar to this scene that gave me some escapism, my fantasy.
Hanging back at the door, I watch Freddy lay Isaac on the bed and tuck his cover around him. His hand gently sweeps across his fair hair, pausing slightly against his cheek.
Freddy doesn’t turn around. He keeps his gaze intent on Isaac, his fingers still lingering on his skin. “He’s mine, isn’t he, Amber?” Freddy’s voice is so low at first, I don’t catch his words. Well, my ears don’t, but my heart does. It hears his words as clear as a bell. And with his question, all my efforts of staying away from Freddy Bale fade into the distance. So does the one truth I’ve told Isaac his entire life that I never got the chance to tell his dad.
Three little letters fly from my lips with a gust of breath that would fly a kite.
“Yes.”
Slowly, Freddy straightens up, his shoulders rolling.
Please turn around so I can read your face.
I can’t seem to move my feet towards him. I’m rooted to the spot waiting for his reaction.
“I guess we need to talk then, Amber,” he says finally.
“Yeah, I guess we do.”
