Trent’s shoulders slumped, and he looked up at me with his big brown eyes, making my heart melt. “But it’s Father’s Day, and he shouldn’t be alone.”
That did me in. Tears stung my eyes and my chest made a sound like a deflating balloon. I bolted upright and turned away from him, trying to compose myself before he saw me lose it. No parent should ever have to explain the finality of death to their child. Especially a five-year-old who had all the questions and wanted all the answers. Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I stuck to my guns. I had to. No matter how much Trent wanted to see his father’s grave it wasn’t safe, and I might bankrupt us to make him happy, but I’d never put him in danger.
“We can’t go back there, Trent. I’m sorry.”
“Is it because of the bad man?”
I didn’t want to talk about the bad man. Telling him in the first place had been a mistake, but he wouldn’t stop asking why we were moving away. I needed him to be safe, so one day, when I’d had more than I could take of his incessant questions, I caved and told him we had to get away from a bad man. Now, no matter how many times I reassured him that his dad and Becca had died in accidents, Trent was convinced the bad man had gotten them.
And I was running out of lies to make him believe otherwise.
Praying he’d finally let me change the subject, I replied, “Come on. Let’s go make pancakes. I’ll even add chocolate chips, just the way you like them.” And then we’d both eat our feelings, because I was a shitty mom, his shitty dad was dead, and I didn’t know what else to do.
Trent must have sensed that I was teetering on the edge, because he put his little hand in mine and nodded, leading me to the kitchen.
Jessica had a coffee tumbler in one hand and a light jacket in the other. She was heading for the front door but paused when we made our appearance. “Hey you two, good morning.” She took one look at us and her eyes went all soft, making it even more difficult for me to hold myself together.
“Go see your family. We’ll be fine,” I assured her, lying through my teeth.
“Okay, but call me if you need me.”
“I will.” Another lie. She’d done so much for us already and there was nothing she could do to help. Not with this. I refused to drag her day down, too. Besides, if she stayed to hang out with us, she’d probably expect answers that I couldn’t give.
I waved, and Jessica walked out the door.
“Come on, kiddo, let’s make that breakfast,” I said, plucking him from the floor and sitting him on the counter. Then I got out a bowl and had him help me crack the eggs, pour the milk, add the chocolate chips, and stir the batter. By the time we finished, the kitchen was a mess of flour, eggshells, measuring cups, and spoons. Trent still looked sad, but not devastated, so I counted it as a win. We ate, quickly cleaned up the wreckage, and then caught a bus to the YMCA. Trent and I swam for a couple of hours before he decided it was time to climb the rock wall.
He loved swimming and climbing, but he wasn’t smiling. Not even when a couple of his friends came over and asked him to play dodge ball. He joined them with a stoic determination that broke my heart.
My kid was in his own little survival mode.
Trent had never been much of a crier, but his tears dried up completely after Robbie’s death. I knew it wasn’t natural and realized I should get him in to see a counselor, but had no idea how I would pay for it. Besides, any counselor worth their weight would want to know Trent’s background and all sorts of information I couldn’t give out. And what would be the best-case scenario? The counselor fixed him, and he started crying all the time? The minute Trent broke down, I’d lose it. We’d both be a wreck of tears and snot, and we’d never be able to function again.
No, thank you.
So, we powered through the morning together, like we had every morning since Robbie’s death, just two people trying to survive despite our hole-riddled hearts.
After the dodge ball, we shot hoops. By two p.m. we were starving and bored of all the YMCA had to offer, so I took Trent to a sandwich shop across the street. As we ate, I tried to come up with ways I could make this stupid day easier on him, easier on both of us.
Maybe we should have gone with Jessica after all.
My gaze kept drifting to my purse. Last night, after my shift, I’d found the napkin with Wasp’s number on it lying on the table in the break room. Promising myself I wouldn’t use it unless it was an emergency, I’d stuffed it in my purse. This wasn’t technically an emergency, but the situation was dire, and after seeing the way Trent looked at Wasp, I knew that if anyone could cheer my little man up, it was the crazy biker who couldn’t seem to take no for an answer.
Trent was already attached to Wasp. He’d given the biker a Father’s Day card, for crying out loud. I couldn’t let them spend more time together. If I cracked open the door, Wasp would come barreling through it. Then, when he left, everything we’d been rebuilding would come crashing down around us.
We couldn’t lose anyone else. It would destroy us.
But, I also couldn’t bear to see Trent looking so depressed, especially not after watching Robbie struggle with depression for years.
Finished with his sandwich, Trent pushed grapes around his plate, looking so damn pathetic it tugged at every heartstring in my chest and tied me into knots. I had to do something. There were almost six hours left until bedtime, and I refused to let him spend them miserable. Before I could overthink what I was about to do, I grabbed the napkin from my purse and keyed Wasp’s number into my phone, pressing dial. It rang three times, and I was already waffling and about to hang up when he answered.
“Hello?”
That deep sexy voice reminded me why this was such a horrible idea. Needing to keep the door between us closed, I wanted to hang up. But one look at Trent’s sad little face steeled my resolve. We needed help.
“Hi, Wasp, it’s Carly.”
Across the table, my kid perked right up, his eyes round as he stared at me. He looked so damn hopeful I wanted to pat myself on the back. Or stab myself in the leg. Only the outcome would determine whether I was a brilliant problem-solver or a masochistic moron.
