I removed the necklace and hastily wiped the tears away. Why did I do this to myself? I’d made my choice, and I was sticking to it. The door creaked open just as I’d laid the precious metals back in their box for safekeeping.
“Mommy!” Keith didn’t wait for my reply, instead launching himself at me. I caught him mid-leap, all 43 sun-kissed pounds of him. I marveled at his faith in me. He trusted that his mommy would be there to catch him. If I’d done this to my own mother,she would have stepped aside and let me drop.Get up, Michelle. Falling is unbecoming.
“We have to go,” Keith said, already dressed in his T-ball uniform. “The game is starting.”
I checked the wall clock. “No, Bug. It starts in three hours.”
He blinked, no concept of time… or humility. “Now that I had my birthday, I’m going to be the best hitter ever.”
“I know you will be,” I said, kissing his cheek and running one hand through his wavy hair. He was a blur of knees and elbows, five years of continuous motion and nonstop chatter. Keith had Scott’s smile. Scott’s eyes. Scott’s impossible optimism. Just last week, this little boy had taken a nap in the outfield mid-game, yet he truly believed today he was going to knock it out of the park. Yep, Scott through and through.
“And when you do, I’ll be the one cheering the loudest,” I said in my rah-rah voice. Keith squished my cheeks between his sticky palms and planted a kiss on my lips, so sweet, so innocent. I smiled and took a deep breath. This right here was why I’d stepped off the plane. For Scott. For Keith. For Emma. To build my own little family, away from my former one. It had been the right decision. And I was happy… mostly.
“All right,” I said, setting him back down on his feet. “Let me get changed, and I’ll be right out.”
“Okay, Mommy. But hurry, ’K?” Keith swung his way out of the room, making kapow sounds as his invisible bat hit the ball.
Three hours before the game, I wanted to say.No hurry at all.
Keith metme right outside the door, taking my hand and narrating what I’d missed in the fifteen-minute reprieve I’d taken for myself. The narrow hallway opened into our cramped quarters. We lived paycheck to paycheck, and one quick lookaround our apartment proved it wasn’t getting us much. Two bedrooms, thin walls, and the constant hum of Venice outside the window. Scott’s only requirement had been that our apartment be within walking distance to the beach, which accounted for the full-sized surfboard propped against the wall. The tiny-sized one beside it belonged to Keith, who Scott had started training to ride a wave at three. Rounding out the décor was a guitar leaning against the wall like a relic, strings dusty, the last remnant of Scott’s time on stage. My little keyboard sat nearby, the one I used after the kids went to bed, quietly relearning what my hands used to know. The rest was toys, laundry, and the small comforts of a simple life.
Scott, with a face full of stubble and still wearing the utility vest from work, was struggling to put Emma’s fine blonde hair into pigtails. He looked tired, and who could blame him? He’d left for work at four this morning. When I was pregnant with Keith, he’d ditched his backup jobs for one laborious position, loading and unloading deliveries for a local distributor. Scott often picked up extra weekend shifts to supplement an income that supported two households.
It was a sore spot between us. I knew when I married Scott that he had a son to support. That was never the issue. Mitchell deserved everything his father could give him. But sometimes it was hard not to notice the imbalance. April lived rent-free with her new fiancé, Tony. This one was a catch, or so she reminded me every time we made the kid exchange. April drove a new car, shopped at department stores, and had her nails done every two weeks, while Scott and I were counting change at the grocery store. It wasn’t resentment so much as fear. With Scott’s job not providing insurance, retirement, or any kind of safety net, one bad fall, one bad flu, and we’d be sunk.
“Daddy said we’ll get donuts after the game if I don’t run the bases backward this time.”
“I don’t think Daddy needs to bribe you with donuts to get you going in the right direction,” I said, more for Scott’s ears than Keith’s. Honestly, what I was really getting at was whether we had enough change for a dozen.
“Says the parent who didn’t have to take the walk of shame out onto the field last weekend,” Scott said.
Emma sat in a chair, swinging her tiny legs in footie pajamas and clutching a plastic doll by its matted hair. She was the picture of angelic beauty… right up until she wasn’t. Getting her dressed for the day was strategic, done moments before leaving the house to reduce the risk of a meltdown that would prompt the next-door neighbor to get out of his armchair and pound on our connecting wall.
“I wear tutu?” she asked when she saw me coming. I froze. Scott stopped brushing her hair. Our eyes met in pure terror. I was convinced that the tacky purple Barney the Dinosaur tutu Emma had received six months ago for her second birthday—from Uncle Paul’s ditsy new girlfriend—was a form of psychological warfare. Emma demanded to wear it every day. Like,everyday. A refusal almost always resulted in a ticking tantrum in tiny sneakers.
“Maybe later, sweet pea,” I said, brushing the bangs from her forehead. “After the donuts.”
Yes, I said it. I was no better than Scott. I just liked to think I was.
He caught my eye, grinning, then went back to fixing Emma’s hair. A minute passed before he groaned and waved the brush around. “Nope. That’s it. I’m done. No matter what I do, she comes out looking like a Cabbage Patch doll.”
Scott was good at many things, but getting the kids out the door looking like they had a roof over their heads was not one of them. I walked over and took the brush from his hand, stealing a quick kiss in the smooth exchange. Even after sixyears, he still sent my pulse skittering—especially like this, scruffy and sleep-rumpled, the version of Scott I’d fallen hardest for. He reached around and gave my ass a covert squeeze during the handoff, fingers lingering just long enough to spark heat low in my belly, his wicked little grin promising we’d finish what that touch started once the kids were finally asleep.
After a few twists and turns of Emma’s hair, the job was done. “There you go, Emmy.”
She slid off the chair, her pigtails bobbing as she ran to Keith. Wherever he was in the house was where she wanted to be. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t use him as a babysitter on those rare occasions when I just needed to close the bathroom door all the way.
“Sorry about the hair,” Scott said, following me into the kitchen. “I was trying to have it done before you came out.”
“It’s okay, I’m used to that beach tumbleweed on top of your head.”
He lifted himself onto the counter. “I was talking about Emma’s pigtails.”
“Oh. Right. My mistake,” I teased. “How was work?”
“It was work.”
My gaze flicked toward the living room, where two small heads were bent over a pile of crayons and a scattering of plastic safari animals. I closed my eyes, took a quick breath for courage, and turned back to Scott.
