I turn to face him. “It’s nothing.”
“Clearly it’s something.”
And then his phone rings. He breaks our little stand-off to walk into the dining room where I left it on the table. His eyes flare as he glances at the screen. “I have to take this.”
“Is it your dad?”
“Yeah,” he replies and without another word leaves us and charges upstairs.
I hear his bedroom door close more forcefully than necessary. I bet he’s locked it too. Because he thinks I’m some kind of raging lunatic that will, what? Barge in there and reveal his secret like some trashy ex on an episode ofJerry Springer? A show my mom still watches when repeats are on late at night after she’s had a huge fight with my dad and spends her night on the couch in front of the TV. That happened every couple of weeks of my childhood.
I sigh and lower myself to the floor to play with Dylan. That’s when I realize he’s got his face all scrunched up and his cheeks are pinking. His tells that he is dropping a post-breakfast poop in that pristine diaper. I let him finish the task and then lift him up immediately and start toward the stairs. “Whew! That’s quite the stinker, Dyllie Bear.”
I feel my eyes watering and pray I have enough wipes left to clean this up. I remind myself to make a list of everything I need and ask Tate to pick it up, or at least take me to a drugstore or Target so I can get the stuff myself.
I place Dylan on a towel on the bed, next to a new diaper and my remaining wet wipes. Oh boy, it’s his worst poop yet and I quickly go through all the wet wipes, but I get the job done. As I’m wrapping the new diaper on him he squeals in delight. I smile and fight the urge to shush him. I am not going to teach him to hide because his dad is too scared to admit he exists.
I pick up Dylan, ignoring the pain in my side, and put him on my other hip and carry him, and the toxic waste that is his diaper, into the bathroom. I toss it in the ridiculously small garbage and make a note to add a proper disposal for diapers to my list for Tate.
When I enter the bedroom Tate is there, looking pissed off. “You had to come up here? You couldn’t keep him quiet downstairs? My dad heard him!”
“He needed a diaper change and the supplies were up here,” I explain, anger simmering like boiling water under my skin. “He gets excited when he gets a new diaper. He hates being dirty. Loves being clean. And fuck you for shaming me for tending to your son.”
“I didn’t mean it that way it’s just?—”
“You’re hiding him. I’m not,” I snap. “And I won’t make him ashamed for existing because you are ashamed?—”
“I’m not ashamed!” Tate yells so loud it bounces off every corner of the room and I swear the walls shake.
He turns and storms out of the room as Dylan bursts into tears. Tate scared the shit out of him, and me if I'm honest. Tate has never been anything but the fun, easy-going, golden boy that he was born to be. Even in games, and I've watched a lot of his games both when he was a junior and as a pro. I have the NHL Network app just so I can watch him, even in England. My parents and Diana thought I had it for my brother Emmett, but I never missed a Quake game. And even on the ice, when pests try to mess with his game, try to force him to get angry and throw a punch, or try to take a swing at him, he just smiles. Literally grins, like he's just been told the best joke ever. He doesn't engage, ever. Nothing gets under Tate's skin. Except me, apparently.
I bounce Dylan in my arms give him soothing words and head into the hall to find Tate and fix this, somehow. I assume he went downstairs but I didn't hear his footsteps on the stairs. His bedroom door is open and the light from the bathroom is spilling out and glancing off the hardwood floor.
Dylan’s face is buried in my neck, making it damp with his tears, as I rub his back. But he’s stopped wailing and now I can hear a different sound. Something deeper, more anguished. Ashamed. I follow the sound into Tate’s bedroom.
It smells so much like him in here it's like a punch to my heart. His woodsy aftershave. His crisp deodorant. It floods my brain with memories of the night I buried my face in his neck, threaded my fingers through his thick hair, felt his skilled fingers between my legs.
My skin heats. And then I turn to look in his bathroom and everything gets cold. Tate is standing there facing the marble vanity. His shoulders slumped and shaking, his face tilted down, his hands in balled fists on the countertop. Tears leaking out of his shut eyes. He's crying. No sobbing.
I rush to him and touch his shaking back with the flat of my hand not holding Dylan. “I’m sorry.”
“No. Don’t,” he chokes out and tries to move away from me. I grab onto the fabric of his shirt, trying to hold him in place. It works even though I know he could yank free if he wanted to.
“I’m sorry, Tate. It’s going to be okay,” I promise blindly.
“I can’t do this alone,” he confesses hoarsely. “Please don’t leave. Please. I promise I won’t… I’ll do my best for him but I just… please help me.”
He turns his head toward me finally, fixing his watery bloodshot eyes on me. Dylan is still whining and fussing in my arms and he reaches out and cups the back of his son’s head, gently threading his fingers through his downy hair. “I’m gonna do right by you, Dylan. I promise.”
All the fury confusion and pain in me just melts into a puddle of nothing. Because none of it matters. All that matters is helping this amazing man be an amazing father. I step closer to him and he steps into me, wrapping his arms around both me and Dylan.
With Tate’s head on one shoulder and Dylan’s on the other, my neck now saturated by both their tears, I fight my own and vow, “I’ve got you both. I promise.”
Chapter6
Tate
“Garrison!” Coach Braddock barks as I hop over the boards to take my spot on the bench. “Can you get your brain in the game now, for fucksake!”
