I blink. "What?"
"This afternoon!" Matthew's voice pitches higher, tears already welling up again. "I took him downstairs to show Noah my new tricks, and I left him there!"
"Honey, it's okay. I'll go get him tomorrow morning."
"I can't sleep without Mr. Gears!" Matthew's breathing is getting faster, that telltale sign that he's spiraling toward a full meltdown.
I glance at my wristwatch. It's a quarter past eight. I really don't want to disturb Noah this late. He's already gone above and beyond for me in his short employment.
"Matthew, why don't you sleep with your teddy instead? You used to love Cuddlepuff."
"Please, Mom!" His eyes fill with tears. "Please get him! Noah won't mind. I know he won't."
And there it is. The tears. The trembling lip. I know this battle is lost before it even begins. I'm trapped. I have to go down to the apartment and get Mr. Gears.
"Okay, okay." I wipe his tears with my thumbs, forcing a smile. "I'll go get Mr. Gears right now."
Matthew throws his arms around my neck, squeezing tight. "Thank you, Mom. You're the best."
I hold him for another moment, then tuck him back into bed. "I'll be right back. Five minutes, tops."
"Okay." He settles against his pillow, still sniffling but visibly calmer.
I slip out of his room and head downstairs, already pulling out my phone to text Noah.
But by the time I'm standing outside his door, he still hasn't answered my text. I hesitate a few seconds more, then I try calling.
No answer.
Unease crawls up my spine as I consider the possibility that Noah might be out for the night. But no. His car is parked in my driveway.
I knock softly on the door. Once. Twice.
No answer.
I knock again, a little louder this time, and call out quietly, "Noah? Are you there?"
Still nothing.
I move to the small window beside the door and peer inside. The living room is dark except for the faint glow of a nightlight in the hallway. And there, sitting on the kitchen counter near the breadbox, is Mr. Gears.
Right there. So close.
I could be in and out in thirty seconds.
I look down at the key in my palm, already warming from my nervous grip. My fingers are slick with sweat.
This feels wrong. All kinds of wrong.
Walking into Noah's apartment without him knowing feels like crossing an invisible boundary, no matter that he's living on my property. It's his space now.
But Matthew is upstairs, waiting. Building up to a meltdown if his comfort toy isn't in his arms in the next ten minutes.
I close my eyes and count to three. My wings flutter against my back, the tips brushing against my blazer in agitation.
Maybe Noah is out. Maybe he went for a walk.
Or maybe he's in the shower.
