"Yeah, I see him."
"Why does he always watch us? Does he want to play with us?"
I looked at Tommy. His little face was flushed from the sun, sweat beading on his nose, damp hair stuck to his forehead. A five-year-old—everything looked simple to him.
"Maybe."
"Should I go ask him over?"
"No need," I said. "You go play."
Tommy ran back to the water. I looked up, catching Paul's gaze. He froze, then dropped his eyes to flip through the book,turning pages a bit frantically. The book nearly slid off his knee. He fumbled to catch it, looking awkward.
I turned my head back. Waves rolled in layer after layer, then pulled back out. I buried my feet in the sand—cool, damp, water seeping up from below. But my head was a mess right now.
I could tell he was changing. He didn't wear those clothes with brands I couldn't recognize anymore, just regular T-shirts and shorts. Once I noticed the tag on his collar—Walmart brand, fifteen bucks each. I'd bought them on sale as pajamas for Tommy.
He'd put away that black car rode that old bike everywhere. The seat had a crack wrapped with black electrical tape, the edges already curling up. He'd gotten tan. I'd seen him once when his arms were peeling—red patches, white patches. Now it had healed into an even light brown.
But I didn't know how long this change would last. Six years ago, he'd worn a custom suit and said those things to me on that street corner, looking down. I still remembered every word. Now he rode a busted bike, wore an old T-shirt, sat at a distance on the beach—did that erase those words?
Tommy came over, saying he wanted to go home and rest. I took his hand and headed back, packing up our things. I glanced at the bench. Paul was already gone. The bike too.
Back at the apartment, I got Tommy showered and changed, then started dinner. Mark said he'd come at six-thirty. He came every Thursday with kids' meals. Tommy really liked him because he always brought a picture book, sometimes stayed to build Legos, sitting on the floor for over an hour.
Tommy played with his toy cars in the living room, making vroom sounds and brake noises. Through the window, you could see a slice of ocean, dyed orange-red by the sunset now, a few seabirds drifting lazily across the sky.
The doorbell rang. Tommy ran to get it, calling out happily, "Mark!" Mark came in carrying two bags—one with meal containers, one with toys.
"For you." He handed Tommy the toy bag.
"Thanks, Mark!" Tommy took it, pulling out a fire truck Lego set.
I watched them and smiled. Mark set the meal containers on the dining table—grilled chicken sandwich and vegetable salad, the kind I liked.
"What's wrong with you today?" He looked at me. "You're distracted."
"Am I?"
"Yes." He sat down at the table. "You've been spacing out since I walked in. Tommy called you twice, and you didn't hear him."
I didn't answer. I brought the mac and cheese I'd made to the table and sat across from him.
Tommy carried his new toy back to his room, door half-open. You could hear him playing on the floor, narrating for himself—wee-ooh, wee-ooh.
Mark watched me from across the table. The kitchen light hit his face. His eyes were gentle, tinged with worry, brows slightly furrowed.
"Ella." He said my name, voice softer than usual. "Has something been going on lately?"
I looked at that slice of ocean through the window. The sky still held a bit of afterglow, the sea surface dark blue, an orange-red line where it met the sky. I'd lived here six years, watched this ocean for six years. It never changed, always there, tides rising and falling, sunrise and sunset. Sometimes I wondered how many people it had seen, how many things, what it remembered.
I didn't know if I should tell him. He waited for me to speak, didn't rush, just sat there.
"Mark." I started, voice lower than usual. "Tommy's father found me."
Several seconds passed before I heard him take a soft breath.
"When?"
