Teddy Vale.
Dancing.
Gift bag.
Then his eyes crash into me.
And freeze.
And then it’s all over.
He stops breathing.
Navy eyes blown wide,
big and bare and breaking.
Jaw locked. Throat tight.
As if he stepped through the door
and into a world he wasn’t ready for.
It cracks him open.
I see the ache rising fast in his eyes.
An ache that only shows
when what you wanted too much turns real.
He stands struck and speechless.
I don’t know if he’s stunned or pissed,
if he’s about to cry or combust.
“There’s our boy!” someone shouts.
Then he turns?—
And walks right back out into the cold,
the door swinging shut behind him.
My stomach flips.
Shit.
I’m moving.
Fuck boots.
I’m in socks and stubbornness,
already out the back door.
The cold slaps my face and stings my cheeks before I hit the porch stairs, socks already soaked as I round the side of the house, past the bins, the hose, where ten-year-old him probably hid tears and punched the siding.
