by Shay Stone
“Yes, please,” he replies, fully engrossed in the bright characters dancing across the screen.
“Nyla, this isn’t acceptable,” I state flatly, choosing to let the daddy thing go for now and focus on the wall. She crosses into the kitchen and pours some orange juice into a sippy cup.
“You think I don’t know that? I told him it wasn’t. That’s part of what we were fighting about.”
“And what else were you fighting about?”
“That’s none of your business,” she retorts, returning to the living room to hand Conner his drink with me a step behind. She turns around knocking into my chest and groans. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”
“Nope. I’ve got the whole day free.” I probably should go back to the office, but Max will understand. I’ll work from here or go in on Saturday. “You promised me lunch, and we’re going to have lunch. We can go to the park or we can stay here. It’s up to you.” When she doesn’t answer, I choose for her. “Here it is then.”
I slide down on the floor next to Conner and scratch Benji’s head. “How ‘bout it, monster? You want me to stay and play with you and Mommy and Benji today?”
“Yes!” Conner nods, tackling me. We roll around his activity blanket with it squeaking beneath us while Benji jumps from side to side, barking his approval.
Nyla presses her palm to her forehead. “Memphis, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Too bad. It looks like it’s three against one. Boys win!”
“Boys win!” Conner cheers and Benji barks again. I smile smugly.
“Benji, you’re a traitor.” She sighs. “This is how it’s gonna be, isn’t it?”
I scramble to my feet and stand in front of her. “You mean after you dump Michael and come back to me, and it’s just the four of us, like it should be? Yep. If you want to even the odds, I’d be happy to get started on making a little girl?” I offer, waggling my eyebrows.
She rolls her eyes again, holding up her left hand to show me her ring. “You know I’m married, right?”
“You know I don’t care, right?”
“You’re impossible,” she mumbles, walking over to the stairs.
“I believe the word you’re looking for is adorable.”
“More like annoying,” she mocks, fighting a smile. She grips the newel post on the banister. “I’m taking a shower.”
“Want some company?”
She holds up her left hand wiggling her fingers, continuing to climb. “Married.”
“That’s not a ‘no.’”
“No,” she calls down from the top of the stairs without looking back.
By the time Nyla bounces down the steps, dressed in her cute little shorts and top, I have the entire day planned. “Ready?” I ask, smiling.
“Ready for what? I thought we were having lunch here.”
“Yeah, well, Conner and I were talking while you were in the shower and he thought, since it’s such a beautiful day, we should go see the city.”
“Oh, Conner thought, did he?”
“Yep.”
“And where does Conner think we should go?” she asks, grinning down at him.
“He thought we’d check out the Dora exhibit at the Children’s Museum and then head to the park for some lunch and maybe hit FAO Schwarz on the way home.”
“Sounds like he gave it a lot of thought.”
“It was a long shower. I assume you were getting up close and personal with the pulsating shower head while thinking about me,” I tease, hitting her with a roguish grin.
“You know what they say about assuming,” she quips back.
I drag my teeth across my lower lip. I love it when she’s cheeky. “So how about it? Will you spend the day with us?” I lift Conner into my arms and flash Nyla with the sappiest puppy dog eyes I can muster. “Pleeeeeeease.”
I whisper to Conner and he smashes his cheek to mine and joins in on the begging. “Pleeeeeease.”
“I’m know I’m going to regret this,” she prefaces before exhaling. “Fine.”
“Good, because the car I ordered to take us just pulled up.”
“What if I would’ve said ‘no’?”
I throw Conner’s diaper bag over my shoulder and lean in closer. “Then I’d have convinced you to say ‘yes’. And if memory serves me, I’m very good at making you say, ‘yes.’”
I’m done fucking around and make no effort to hide my meaning. I want her to remember how good we were together in every way. Nyla’s cheeks heat and I know she’s thinking about having me inside her. Mission accomplished.
“Shall we?” I place my hand on the small of her back, wondering if she still feels the same spark of electricity coursing through every nerve in her body like I do. If today goes the way I’m hoping, she’ll have no need for that shower head ever again.
FORTY-THREE
The museum is a hit. We spend a majority of our visit in the Dora exhibit and divide the rest of our time between feeding a giant talking dragon statue his alphabet letter treats and painting pictures in the art center. I’ve been that cheesy dad that won’t stop taking photos and videos, making sure I capture every second of our outing.
We’re sitting at a kid-sized table with our knees up to our ears, channeling our inner Van Gogh, or in Nyla’s case, her inner Picasso. I peek across the table where she’s lost in her own little world, happily painting away. “What the hel…ck is that supposed to be?” I ask, curbing my language because there are children present.
Her brush pauses as she gazes thoughtfully at her paper canvas. “It’s a dog.”
I snicker. “How is that a dog?”
“What do you mean?” She frowns. “It looks just like a dog.”
“It’s got six legs.”
“No, it doesn’t.” She points to the front of the brown blob that looks nothing like a dog. “That’s his head, silly.”
“What the heck is that pink thing attacking it?”
“His tongue.” A line forms between her brows. “The paint brush may have gotten away from me a bit.”
“Maybe just a bit,” I tease. She pushes my shoulder, knocking me sideways while trying not to smile. I point to the picture with the end of my brush. “Well, if that’s his head, then that is one very well-endowed dog.”
“That’s his tail!” She laughs, punching me playfully in the arm.
“His tail, huh? Wow, who would have thought you sing better than you paint?” She gasps and slugs me again, laughing.
“Ms. Lydia, they’re hitting,” a little girl tattles on us.
“Mr. and Mrs. Drake, we don’t hit,” the art coordinator reprimands us with a smile.
“Sorry, Ms. Lydia,” we apologize, summoning our most serious faces while suppressing the urge to burst into giggles. I like that she referred to Nyla as “Mrs. Drake” and I like it even more that Nyla didn’t correct her. I lean in, trying desperately to resist burying my head in Nyla’s neck. “You got us in trouble.”
Her eyes go wide and her mouth drops. “Me? You’re the one who made fun of my fine artistry skills.”
“Yes, clearly you’re a master painter. It must be my untrained eye.” I point to some gray blob she’s started. “Okay, what the heck is that supposed to be?”
“A cat,” she responds like I should know.
I cover my mouth, muzzling my laughter, and take the paint brush from her hand. “I’m going to have to ask you to step away from the paint brush. Conner and I need your help anyway. Give me your hands.”
Her eyebrows bunch together askance. “Why?”
“Just give me your hands. We’re making something.”
She hesitates for a second before holding them out, protesting when I begin brushing a thin layer of bright yellow paint over her palms and fingers. Conner climbs onto her lap resting his head against her, watching everything I do. I kneel behind them, positioning her hands and press them to the paper in between the imprint of mine and around the one of Conner’s to form three handprint
hearts.
“Blue. Lel-low. Green,” Conner calls out the colors.
“Good boy. That’s our family. Blue and yellow make a little green monster,” I reply, tickling Conner’s side, making him squirm and laugh.
“Would you like me to take a family picture for you?” Ms. Lydia offers.
Nyla straightens in her chair. “Oh, um…”
“Yes, please.” I hand her my phone before Nyla can decline and settle in behind her again.
“Maybe I should move so you can have one of just you and Conner,” Nyla mutters, attempting to hand Conner off to me.
“No. I want you in it too.”
“Memphis, I don’t know if …”
“Please, angel,” I beg softly against her ear.
She gazes back at me and something passes between us when our eyes connect. “Okay.”
I wrap my arms around my family resting my chin on Nyla’s shoulder. She nestles into me, and when Conner places his hands over mine, I damn near cry. This is the happiest I’ve been in my entire life. Ms. Lydia snaps a couple pictures, and I can’t resist pressing my lips against Nyla’s cheek for one. She squeezes my arms sighing contently, forgetting our history for a moment.
“You have such a beautiful family,” Ms. Lydia compliments.
“Thank you. I’m a very lucky man.” I take the phone back laughing when I glimpse the picture on the screen. Whoops.
“What’s so funny? Is Conner making a silly face?” Nyla asks, helping Conner off her lap and sidling next to me.
I scratch my head and hide the phone against my chest. “No. It’s not that.”
“Let me see. Oh, hang on a second. You have green paint on your wrist.”
I tuck my phone in my pocket while she’s momentarily distracted grabbing a wet napkin from the table. And then it dawns on her why I would have green paint on my wrist. She spins around gazing down at the green handprints covering her shirt and shorts. “You didn’t wipe off his hands?”
“I forgot. Your mutant dog painting must’ve distracted me.”
“You are so dead, Drake.” She sticks her fingers in our paper plate palette of paint and sets off chasing me around the table.
“I’m sorry! It was an accident!” I call out behind me, laughing as I weave threw an obstacle course of kids clapping and cheering us on. I make a break for Conner hoping to use him as a human shield but before I can snatch him up, Nyla jumps on my back smashing her hand in my face. She lets out a scream when I drag her across my body, thrashing about and doing her best to arch away from me. I rub my paint covered face over her cheeks while her hands continue to streak my neck and delve into my hair turning me into a walking Jackson Pollock painting.
“Mr. and Mrs. Drake!” Ms. Lydia shouts.
We freeze at the sound, still cracking up. Nyla tugs her shirt down as I place her upright. “Sorry, Ms. Lydia.”
We’re asked to leave the Children’s museum and never return. Covered in paint from head to toe, we decide it’s best to skip the park, opting to grab a couple slices from our favorite pizza place around the corner from the house. We order a large pie and munch away, happily ignoring the reproachful stares from the other customers.
“Did you have fun today, baby?” Nyla asks, pushing Conner’s hair out of his eyes. He nods, chewing a bite of food and opens his mouth to accept the straw when Nyla offers him a drink.
“What?” she asks, catching me watching them.
“Nothing. I’m just happy. It’s been a perfect day.”
“It has,” Nyla agrees, smiling back, our gaze lingering. Conner crawls onto her lap cuddling against her and lets out a big yawn. “We should probably get him home. It’s way past his nap time.”
As we walk the few blocks to the house, Conner fights sleep in my arms. I cradle him to me and ask Nyla to tell me everything she can about him. His first word was dog. His first steps were taken trying to chase said dog. He hates watermelon, yet it was all Nyla craved while she was pregnant with him.
I’m quiet while she reminisces about going into labor, making a mental note to thank Alex for being her Lamaze coach. It should have been me. I should have been there for all of this. I’ve missed so much, and I don’t want to miss anymore.
Back at the house, I take Conner upstairs and help Nyla change him out of his paint covered clothes. She’s a pro at it, managing to get him dressed without waking him. I lay him down and she places his Wally beside him, pressing a kiss to Conner’s forehead. “He’s out cold. I’m glad I washed him up and got most of the paint off his hands at the restaurant. I would’ve hated to wake him up to give him a bath.”
“Yeah,” I reply, staring down at him, thinking how much I’d love to be there for bath time and to put Conner to bed every night. He sleeps with his hand under his chin the same way Mason used to when he was Conner’s age. I wish he and my dad were here to see my little boy. It saddens me to know my dad may never get the chance to meet his grandson.
Nyla places her hand on my forearm. “What’s wrong?
“I was just thinking how much I wish my dad could meet him.”
“He can. If you want to bring him and Mason over one day, that would be fine.”
“I can’t. He’s in a home in Louisiana. We couldn’t care for him on our own anymore. He got too bad.”
“Oh, Memphis, I’m sorry. Poor Cal.”
“Yeah, we would have to go there to see him.” I work my lip with my teeth. “I don’t suppose you’d consider it?”
Her hand falls from my arm, her demeanor changing instantly. “I’m sorry Memphis, but I’m not even sure I’m ready to let you take him around Manhattan on your own yet. I can’t let you take him to a different state without me.”
I see it in her eyes. The doubt. The fear. She wants to trust me, but she still doesn’t. She’s afraid I’ll run off with him. I need to let her know she misunderstood me before I undo everything good that has happened today. “I don’t want to take him on my own. I want you to come with us.”
She backs away from me, tittering nervously. “Memphis, I can’t just up and take off to Louisiana with you.”
“Why not?”
“You know why. I’m married.”
“And I told you I don’t care.”
“Yeah, you don’t, but I do. And I’m sure my husband will too.”
I curl my nose in disgust. “Can you not call him that in front of me?”
“That’s what he is, and you need to get used to it.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do.” Her fingers delve into her hair, pushing it off her face. “You and Michael have to find a way to coexist for Conner’s sake. Right now, he doesn’t want you anywhere near Conner. That’s what we were fighting about this morning. He pitched a fit when I told him we were having lunch together. You really think he’s going to be okay with us going to Louisiana with you?”
I hang my head, gripping the rail of Conner’s crib. “Leave him.”
“What?”
I gaze into her eyes, leaving no question of how serious I am. “Leave him. Come back to me.”
She shakes her head, storming out of the room with me on her heels. “No. Don’t do this. You don’t get to do this to me. You can’t just show up after three years and expect me to drop everything for you. Not after what you did.”
“Nyla, I had a good reason. Let me tell you why I left.”
“No.”
“Dammit, I want to tell you why I left.”
“No.”
I grab her by the elbow, spinning her toward me. “Why won’t you let me tell you?”
The words erupt from her like a volcano. “Because I’m afraid I’ll believe you!”
FORTY-FOUR
My mouth opens but nothing comes out. I don’t know what to say. She walks back to our son’s room and stands in the doorway, hugging herself with her arms. “You said leaving me almost destroyed you. Well, it did destroy me. The only reason I survived it was because of Conner.”
> Each time I think I couldn’t feel any worse than I already do, something happens to show me a new rock bottom. I swathe her from behind burying my head against her neck. “I’m sorry, angel. I am so, so sorry. It killed me to leave you. You have to know that. I’ve been trying to find a way back to you ever since.”
She wilts against me, choking on her tears. “Please don’t tell me that. It only makes it harder for me to hate you.”
“You still hate me?” My arms go lax and she uses the opportunity to break free and face me.
“No, Memphis. That’s the problem. I never hated you. I told myself and everyone else that I did. And I wanted to, but I couldn’t.”
There are traces of shame, maybe even embarrassment in her voice. A river of tears flows freely down her cheek. “I hate the way you left. I hate that I fell for every lie you told. I hate that you showed up just when I’d decided to move on and build a life with someone else. I hate that I convinced myself marrying him would somehow help me get over you. But you know what I hate the most? I hate that I don’t hate you. After everything you put me through, do you know what I felt when I first saw you that day in the park? Happiness. My first instinct was to forget everything that happened and run into your arms. How pathetic is that?”
I run my hands down her arms. “It’s not pathetic at all.”
“Yes, it is,” she replies with a mirthless laugh. “And now, I hate that I already want to believe whatever excuse you’re going to give me for leaving. I hate that I still love you so goddamn much I can hardly breathe.”
Her admission makes my heart explode in my chest. I slide my hand into her hair and my eyes skate over her face. I lower my mouth to hers. She whimpers against my lips. When my tongue dips inside, she tentatively accepts the invasion, but soon succumbs, meeting me stroke for stroke. I pull her into me, holding her in a vice grip, fearing she’ll come to her senses at any moment. But her fingers weave into my hair drawing me in, and I know she’s mine again.
“I love you so fucking much,” I repeat over and over, laying gentle kisses along her face and neck, working my way up to the sensitive hollow behind her ear. Her delicate hands slip under my shirt, gliding over the hard planes of muscle and my body immediately responds. I breathe out her name on a guttural moan, pressing my erection against her belly.