His gummy smile warms my chest.
“One, two…three!”
Carter handicaps himself so Otis can claim victory.
The pair of them laugh.
I sit and watch, feeling my ovaries release an extra egg. Wow.Impregnate me right this second, Mr. Trescott. Since when is he so good with kids?
The warm flush disappears. My stomach starts to sink. Their happy voices echo through my bones, turning each one cold.
It was meant to be just Otis and me.
We were supposed to be safer as a pair.
I was never planning to tell Carter the truth, and I also didn’t want to.
Why should I when he didn’t even care to use his manners?
The broken faux-leather couch engulfs my body as the laughter rings out.
He’s good with him.
Why does he have to be so goddam paternal?
My organs are still fuzzy, but the dread in my stomach is way louder.
I have always strived to provide for my son and give him the world. But I can’t give him this. I can’t be a motheranda father. I can’t pick up action figures and relate to his interests. I can’t run around the room pretend-wrestling him.
Carter tackles him to the ground using boyish force, rough enough for Otis to howl in laughter and enjoy it, but not rough enough to overstep.
He messes up his golden hair. “Well done, buddy. Clan Maclean have come out victorious. Your army won the battle, but can they win the war?” He hitches a playful eyebrow and then stands back up to full height.
Against Otis, he looks like a skyscraper.
“Time to clean up, buddy. I don’t think your mommy would appreciate all of this mess.”
Otis obeys, returning all the soldiers back into the box.
There’s always a delay when it’s me telling him to tidy up.
Carter lands back on the couch and flings his tattooed arms around the backrest.
It’s starting to feel a bit too much likehappy family.My body craves his arms. They shouldn’t be slung around the back of the couch. They should be wrapped around me.
The urge to cuddle up to him is so strong that I have to shuffle myself away from him. I feel small. My whole life, I have focused on being big. Keeping a straight spine, chin up, shoulders back. I wanted to walk down the street with purpose. To command respect from strangers. I was desperate to be the antithesis of my wasteaway mom who wore sweatpants and greasy hair every day like it was uniform.
She was the least respected woman in town, therefore it was crucial I became the opposite of that, to prove to myself that I didn’t share her genetics. I could be different. I could stand tall, take up space, and do something meaningful with my time. The apple didn’t have to fall close the tree.
But then I followed in her footsteps with the casual nights out and flings, and realized that I was always gonna be my mother’s daughter. I could try to escape it, but my libido was always going to be my worst enemy.
I was destined to prioritize my freedom over my own child.
Now, I don’t just feel small in Carter’s presence. I feel like a failure.
After visiting my mother’s grave the day after she was buried, I made a vow to myself—never rely on another human being. Not unless you want to be let down by them.
And now I’m putting my child’s life in the hands of a motorcyclist. One who—despite the rugged makeover—has admitted to never having changed at all.
