“No, you’re not,” I began, but she bolted inside before I could say more. I followed, watching her sink cross-legged onto thecouch with the baby. He lasted about three seconds before wriggling free. With MGM, there was a time and place for cuddling, and it sure as hell wasn’t after a gravel lunch.
I scooped him up, flew him through the air, and landed him in his playpen like a pro wrestler doing a soft finish. Once he was set with his toys, I eased onto the couch beside April.
“You’re a good dad,” she whispered.
“And you’re a good mom.”
“No,” she exhaled, tears streaking down her cheeks. “I haven’t been. Not lately. And you know it.”
I did, but I wasn’t about to agree with her. I didn’t believe in kicking people when they were down. And even though our relationship had been rocky from the start, she was the mother of my child. It hurt to see her hurt. I opened my arms. April leaned into me, her head resting on my shoulder.
“I think it’s over with Ron,” she softly cried.
Oh, it was over. Very over. When a man calls his fiancée trash and she responds by implying his mother is a whore, that’s not a fight. That’s a relationship funeral. But again, the less said in this situation, the better.
“I think mine might be over too,” I admitted.
She pulled back, eyes widening. “Michelle? Why?”
I told her what had happened with her father showing up, catching us, and my fear that I might never see Michelle again.
“Wow, she’s likerichrich,” April said. “I thought I heard a slight twang of yacht in her voice.”
I nodded. “It’s part of her charm.”
“Oh, I’m sure it is. But if you marry her and get rich, you have to start paying me more child support.”
“Really? I bare my soul and that’s your concern?”
We both smiled, a rare moment of levity in what had been a very bumpy couple of years.
“I’m sorry about Ron,” I whispered. And I meant it. My spirit was a little shaken today too.
“I’m sorry about Michelle.”
“Well… It’s not for sure yet.”
“Eh.” She shrugged. “Her father found you both naked under the covers. It’s for sure.”
“I wasn’t asking for a verdict,” I mumbled.
She stared past me, already somewhere else. “I just wanted someone to love me.”
I squeezed her shoulder. “A lot of people love you. Your mom. MGM. Your friends.”
“His name is Mitchell, after my grandfather,” she corrected. “How many times do I have to tell you?”
“He’s my son too. I can call him Turd Bucket if I want to.”
“Mitchell is a strong, distinguished name.”
“Yeah, he’ll be distinguished all right—right after his daily wedgie.”
“Oh, and naming him after a movie studio is going to keep him from getting shoved into a locker?”
“That’s right. Mine sounds powerful. Like he’s got lawyers.”
“There’s no arguing with you.” April threw up her hands. “You have a comeback for everything. Even I want to take your side.”
