by Alexa Martin
Thankfully, the only sound is from the air conditioning struggling to keep me in my preferred frigid temperatures.
On summer break Ace sleeps like a log and I make no effort to curb the habit. With my hours—or my old hours, I should say—it works out for the best anyway. And today, of all days, I need a moment alone to prepare.
I go to grab my robe off the hook behind my door, but I step on something before I get to it. I look down and see my corset spread out on the floor. Instead of moving it, or throwing it in a fire, I stare at it for what feels like a really long time. It looks so ordinary lying on my rug. The sequins look lackluster without the club lights bouncing off them and the underwire’s misshapen in places. Why would I ever miss that? I kick it beneath the bed. Out of everything happening in my life right now, that dingy thing doesn’t even make the list.
I make the short trek to the kitchen. If anything, this news I’m about to bombard Ace with deserves a good breakfast . . . and maybe that new bike he was asking for.
I check my fridge and pantry and thank the heavens that even though I’ve been avoiding the grocery store, I still have everything to make Ace’s favorite breakfast.
I think it’s the smell of bacon wafting through the hallways that brings Ace to the kitchen. His green eyes widen just like I saw the night before on his burly counterpart, and his dimple pops through when a toothy smile covers his face.
“Crepes and bacon!” He runs and high-fives me after I set his plate on the table, the nine-year-old equivalent of a bear hug. “Thanks, Mom!”
“You’re welcome, buddy.” I try to match his smile, but the nerves twisting my insides into knots prevent it. He’s too focused on the grape jelly and cream cheese–stuffed crepes covering his plate to notice my strained smile and watery eyes.
I wash dishes while he eats, knowing damn well that anything I eat won’t stay down. Plus, it gives me a minute to rehearse what I’m going to say one more time.
“You’re not eating?” he asks from the refinished kitchen table.
“Not really hungry, I had coffee.”
Most days my breakfast consists of only coffee, so this doesn’t set off any alarms. I bet he’s just happy he gets extra crepes. He might only be nine, but he eats more than me ninety percent of the time. The impending teenage years already have me cowering in a corner. He’s going to eat me out of house and home.
When I’ve procrastinated for as long as possible, I wipe my hands on the dish towel Ace made for me in kindergarten with his tiny handprints and sloppy penmanship, and sit at the table with him.
He’s humming in between bites, long, sun-bleached curls bouncing across his forehead and eyes sparkling with happiness from something as simple as crepes. He’s oblivious to the atom bomb I’m about to detonate, and I wish I could avoid this forever.
I mean, what if I tell him about TK and then TK bails? Everyone leaves. Especially ones who’ve never had to think about anybody besides themselves. I’ll be okay if TK ghosts, I’ve gotten over him before, but Ace . . .
I stop myself before I let my train of thought go any further. I will not burden Ace with my fears. This will be great.
Please let this be great. Please don’t let his sparkle disappear.
I chant the pleading prayer in my mind over and over until his last bite is gone.
He moves to take his plate to the sink, but I put my hand on top of his to stop him.
He tilts his head to the side, no doubt shocked that I’d ever stop him from cleaning up after himself.
Here we go.
I take a deep breath and resist the urge to close my eyes. “We have to talk.”
I guess even at nine, those are dreaded words. His fingers flinch beneath mine, and he starts to chew his bottom lip, a bad habit he inherited from me.
“Did I do something?” His voice trembles and I want to kick myself. I haven’t even told him anything and I’m already messing this up.
“No, buddy.” I link my fingers with his and give him a squeeze. I don’t know if I’m doing it for his comfort or mine. “It’s about your dad.”
There.
I know ripping off the Band-Aid wasn’t all too successful with TK, but fingers crossed history doesn’t repeat itself.
“What?” He jerks his arm and I tense my fingers around his, unwilling to let him go. “My dad?”
“Yeah, bud, your dad.” I keep my eyes on him, fascinated by the mix of emotions marring his beautiful face.
“Wh-what about him?” He stumbles over his words.
“I saw him.” I wait for him to say something . . . anything . . . but when he doesn’t, I continue on. “I told him about you and he wants to meet you.”
“He does?” His eyebrows rise to his hairline and a wonder-filled smile takes over his face.
Shocked excitement for him.
Painful guilt for me.
I made him doubt himself. My decision made him doubt his worth . . . his ability to be loved.
“Yes, he does. You’re the most amazing person I’ve ever met, anybody would be lucky to have a second around you.” It’s a fierce declaration, true on every level.
His smile turns shy. His own biggest critic, he’s never been one to bask in Mom’s attention.
“He’s coming over today—”
Ace cuts me off. “Today? What time?”
“He’ll be here at two.”
He looks at the clock and then closes his eyes, no doubt calculating a countdown in his head. “I gotta go clean my room!” He pulls his hand from mine and pushes away from the table, the old legs dragging against the hardwood floor.
“Ace.” I stop him just short of sprinting out of the kitchen.
“Oh.” He shakes his head and reaches for his dirty plate. “In the sink. Sorry.”
“Not that.” I pull the plate from his hand again. “I have to tell you who he is.”
His brows furrow. “Ummm . . . okay?”
He clearly thinks I’m insane.
“Your dad is . . .” Why is this part so hard? “TK is your dad. TK Moore.”
I don’t know what I was expecting, but sheer bliss was not it.
“That’s why you were talking to him after my practice!” he shouts. “Oh my god! TK Moore!” His hands fly to his hair then out in front of his face, then back to his hair. “Wait until my friends find out!”
I want to stop him. Don’t tell your friends. We don’t know how long he’ll be around. But I don’t. I might be scared TK will bail, but those are my insecurities and there’s not a chance in hell I’m screwing Ace up about his dad any more than I already have.
Ace continues to punch the air while dancing around the tight kitchen. I can’t remember the last time he’s been this happy.
He just found out his dad is Superman. Why wouldn’t he be thrilled?
But I can’t help wondering, how long until he thinks I’m the villain who kept him from his hero?
Thirteen
AS the day goes on, I can feel the shift of energy in the house. The hairs on the back of my neck stand straight from the static energy the nerves are creating. Ace asks a few more questions—if his room looks okay, if it’ll be all right for him to mention football—before he retreats to his sports-covered room. At one thirty, he comes out of his room, dressed in the Jordan outfit I found at Ross before summer started, and sits next to me on the couch. I give him the remote, but he’s too focused on the empty street in front of our house to even notice.
At two o’clock sharp, TK’s Range Rover glides to a stop in front of our house. I leave Ace, whose knee hasn’t stopped bouncing since he sat down, on the couch while I greet TK.
“Hey.” I open the door as TK walks up the uneven pathway to the porch, plastering a smile on my face I’m ninety-eight percent sure makes me look like a murderous clown.
B
ut it’s the effort that counts, right?
“Hey,” he repeats, his eyes shifting around like I’m going to bombard him with a village of children. “How are you?”
“We’re good.” I answer for Ace even though it might not be true.
“Good . . . that’s good.” One of TK’s hands is holding an oversize plastic bag, the other one is in his pocket, but even through the thick fabric of basketball shorts, I can still see it fidgeting. “You look good.”
“Thanks,” I say even though I know he’s lying.
I look a hot-ass mess. I didn’t even try to put on makeup. I thought if I acted casual and nonchalant about the whole thing, Ace would too. Also, if I let a few tears slip without makeup on, there won’t be a faded spot on my face traced with bleeding mascara.
I move out of the doorway and motion to the living room like a Price Is Right model. “Come on in.”
He doesn’t say anything and I watch as he transforms right in front of me. He closes his eyes and his long fingers flex around the bag handle. He inhales a breath so deep, I’m surprised there’s any oxygen left over for me. He exhales and rolls his neck from left to right and back again and kicks out each leg three times. I bet this is what he looks like in the locker room before a game. Then his eyes open, his shoulders relax, and a genuine smile from under the thick beard—dammit to hell, I still want to dig my fingers into it—appears.
All hints of nerves gone, he walks past me and into my living room.
And straight into Ace’s life.
No turning back now.
He walks to the middle of the room and stops cold, no doubt taking in the beauty that is Ace. I ignore the butterflies rioting in my stomach, walk past him, and stand between the two of them.
I watch as they both stand in silence, checking each other out. After a minute, they’re both wearing matching smiles and expressions of awe. The fear I’ve felt since I walked out of that clinic dissipates and excitement takes over. I’m able to forget my guilt for a minute and bask in the goodness of Ace and TK together.
TK holds out the bag he’s been clinging to. “I hope you’re a Mustangs fan.”
“I am.” Ace takes his time reaching for the bag. I think he’s afraid to look too eager, not only wanting to be the cool nine-year-old he always is but wanting his superstar dad to think he’s awesome too.
TK slides the bag onto Ace’s wrist, and Ace’s eyes widen as his arm falls under the weight of the bag.
Ugh.
Just great. The bribery begins . . . bribery I have no feasible way of competing with.
Ace turns and runs to the couch, where he promptly dumps out what I assume is every Mustangs item TK was able to get his hands on. Including, but not limited to, a Moore jersey, socks, hats—baseball and the knit variety—a stuffed Mustang that Ace might be too old for, and a hoodie I wish was a few sizes bigger so I could steal.
“Awesome!” Ace turns and stutter-steps in TK’s direction.
TK sees his hesitation and takes it upon himself to close the distance between them and wrap Ace in his strong arms.
My heart squeezes and then proceeds to explode into a million glittery pieces inside my chest.
“Glad you like it.” TK ruffles Ace’s mop of curls but takes another minute before he completely releases him.
“Wait until I show Jayden, he’s gonna flip.” Ace starts putting his new goodies back in the bag. Well, not the jersey. That he puts on over the shirt he’s already wearing. “His dad buys him a new jersey every season and he always tells me about the Mustangs games he gets to go to.”
“Who’s Jayden?” TK asks.
“My friend.” Ace states the obvious but continues on before I have to supplement information. “He lives down the street and hopefully we’ll be on the same soccer team this year. When I saw you the other day, that was our last tryout.” At the mention of soccer, his green eyes almost pop out of his skull. “Mom!” he shouts even though I’m only a few feet away. “Has Coach e-mailed you? Check your e-mail!” he keeps yelling, not giving me a chance to answer.
I grab my phone off the coffee table and punch in my password when my hands are too sweaty for the fingerprint technology to work.
I open my e-mail and skim over what feels like hundreds of ads, trying to ignore Ace bouncing on his toes and biting his nails—a habit I fear I’ll never be able to break—until I see it.
DENVER ELITE TEAM ROSTERS
“It’s here!” I shout.
Huh? So I guess that’s where Ace gets his loud tendencies from.
“Did I make it? Did I make it?” Ace asks.
“Hold on.” I motion a finger at him. Scrolling through the names.
Denver Elite Soccer Club will have four teams for their Boys U10 division—Gold, Silver, Bronze, and Copper.
They start from the bottom.
“Hurry, Mom.” Ace rushes me, like I’m going slow for dramatic effect. “Did I make it or not?”
“There are so many names, I haven’t gotten to you yet.” But as soon as I say it, I see what I’m looking for: Ace Patterson. “Team Gold, baby!” I cross the short distance between us and pull him into a hug.
“Team Gold? Really?” Ace asks, not yet returning my hug. Like I would ever trick him about this.
“Yes, really!” I squeeze him extra tight and lift all seventy pounds of him with my legs. “I told you you’re amazing. I knew you’d make it!”
I put him back on the floor, unable to hold him any longer. And the news finally sets in.
“I did it!” His feet leave my rug again—but this time of his own accord—as he jumps Tom Cruise on Oprah style onto my couch. “I’m on Team Gold!”
I raise my hand for a high five, but he ignores my hand in front of his face and turns to TK, giving him the high five instead.
I mean . . . Damn.
“That’s awesome, dude!” TK returns the high five with genuine excitement. “Congratulations!”
“Thanks!” Ace jumps off the couch. “I’ve played soccer since first grade, but this is the first year Mom let me try out for competitive. I can’t believe I made it.”
I watch the two of them, bonding over sports, over the good news Ace has been hoping to hear since I gave him the go-ahead to try out, and I check my hurt.
This is the way it should be. The way it always should’ve been. And once I get over my initial reaction, I go soft at the realization that this is the first big moment Ace gets to share with both of his parents. It’s the first time in a long time I get to share my pride and happiness over Ace with another person.
I feel my smile growing and decide to give them some time to themselves. That’s what today was supposed to be about anyway.
I turn to leave, thinking of all the chores I’ve ignored since school let out, and decide to attack the mounds of unfolded laundry piling up.
This dad thing is already proving to be very beneficial.
I don’t even make it out of the living room when TK calls to me. “Poppy, put on some shoes.”
I turn back to him, my eyebrows raised at his demand. “Why?”
“Our kid just made Gold. We have some celebrating to do.”
“Poppy?” TK asks when I don’t make a move or even whisper a word.
But it’s impossible.
Our kid.
That’s what he said—our kid.
Melt me like a freaking Popsicle.
I nod at him, still incapable of speech, and slip on the flip-flops I left on the floor next to the chair.
“Mexican food?” TK asks, and I watch as Ace lights up.
“Mexican is my favorite!” Ace turns to me, aware that I exist again. “Did you tell him that?”
I give him the God’s honest truth. “Nope.”
“She didn’t tell you?” he asks TK.
I guess
my answer didn’t satisfy him.
“Nope, Mexican food is my favorite, so I was just hoping. Looks like we have a lot in common already.” TK holds up a single finger. “We’re both superstar athletes.” He adds a second finger. “We have great taste in food.” Third finger. “We both cheer for the Mustangs every Sunday.” Fourth finger goes up. “We’re ridiculously good-looking.” He adds his thumb. “And . . . most important of all . . .” He drops his hand before pointing a finger at me. “That lady is crazy about the both of us.”
I wasn’t prepared for those words to come out of his mouth, and because of that, there’s no holding back my laughter . . . or the accompanying snort. Ace and TK are laughing too, so much so that every time I think we’re almost done laughing, we make eye contact and the laughter starts all over.
I wrap an arm around my midsection and wipe the tears from the corners of my eyes with the other. “Still full of yourself, I see.” I stand firm in my position as anti-ab-workout, but I’d imagine this is what I’d feel like after doing a couple hundred sit-ups. “Are we gonna eat or what?”
“Food is always a yes.” TK pulls the keys from his pocket. “Let’s hit the road.”
I look at Ace, who is still standing next to TK, and something inside me that’s been broken for so long, something I didn’t even realize was still aching, fuses together. He’s always been a happy kid, but right now? He’s blissed out.
“Cool car!” Ace says to TK as soon as we hit the sidewalk.
“Thanks.” TK beeps the locks. “Wanna sit shotgun?”
“Yes!” Ace shouts, lunging for the passenger door at the same time I yell “No!” and block his opening.
“Back seat until twelve,” I say to anyone who will listen. Which, at this point in time, I’m not sure is TK or Ace.
But they both hear me.
I know this because, at the exact same time, they both mumble out a defeated-sounding “Moms.”
“Yes, moms.” I use sarcasm to deny my current need to turn into a gooey, gushy mess again. “We keep you safe. You’re welcome.”
Then, with me back in the front seat of TK’s Range Rover and Ace safe and buckled in the back seat, we take off on our first-ever family excursion.
