Otis yells my name at such a convenient time. I force a smile at Carter and disappear into the next room to take my son out of his cot. He protests in my arms, demanding to be put down on the floor so he can “check on his soldiers.”
“He’s just like his mother.” Carter steps into the living area behind me and observes.
I’d rather he didn’t.
I flash him a gritted smile to say,you can leave us alone now,but he doesn’t get the memo and takes a seat on my faux-leather couch. The one purchased from an online marketplace six months into my pregnancy, where the guy didn’t even bother to carry it inside for me.
The carpet rip that Carter is now flipping with his shoe is from when I had to drag it in through the house.
Otis plays with his action figures. I stick my hands on my hips and remain standing, like I’m the awkward guest instead of the host, a stranger to my own home because Carter Trescott is in it.
He pats the space on the couch beside him. “Come sit.”
I leave a respectable gap between us, palms flat on my lap like I’m sitting in on an important conference.
“Who did you say his father was?” Carter asks.
I shrivel up and shut my eyes.Please, lord, no. Not this question.
In situations like this, it’s best to play cool. Showing signs of awkwardness raises suspicion.
“I didn’t say. But he’s not important.”
Not important.
Even though I’ve slept with him multiple times.
And now he’s my number one protector.
“Not important at all,” I say.
“How old is he?”
“Two,” I huff, crossing my arms over my chest.
Stay outta my life and I’ll stay out of yours.
Although, I can’t help but wonder about who he lost. A wife? A parent? Nothing brings a person back down to planet earth like the death of a loved one.
Carter traded his business for peace, but it sounds like he still hasn’t found that.
He’s still Carter Trescott, CEO of Milton’s Milkshakes, the man who sleeps with women and dumps them straight after, too self-important to say goodbye like the rest of us. That’s why he joined the club. He sickened himself and wanted to get away from himself.
He slides off the couch and approaches Otis, who’s mindlessly playing with his action figures on the other side of the room.
“Which one can I have?” Carter asks.
Otis looks up, pissed that someone has interrupted him, but also pleased at the same time. Because another person wants to play. Finally.
He rummages through various figures and puts one in Carter’s hand, explaining the rules in toddler babble. Carter listens intently, nodding, his eyes concentrating way too much on my boy’s face.
I stir uncomfortably in my seat, but the fear becomes a much warmer emotion once they start to play. Carter cracks a playful smile at my son, and suddenly I’m admiring a piece of art. Every smile line. Every white tooth, exposed in joy as they play action figures together.
They each build their own army.
“On the count of three,” says Carter, poised, ready to attack. “We charge. Are you ready?”
Otis nods with excitement.
