Ryan closed his eyes for a moment, the same way I used to when the twins were treading on my last nerve. “Not this time. I’ll be back soon, okay?”
Mason started to cry. Seeing the stress and helplessness on Ryan’s face, I reached down and gently detached Mason from his leg. “Go,” I mouthed to Ryan, who mouthed back a thank you and slipped out the door.
Mason continued to cry, sprawling on the floor in the dramatic style employed by pissed off three-year-olds around the world. Shrugging, I lowered myself to the floor and stretched out beside him. He looked at me, momentarily distracted.
“I thought you wanted to show me your room,” I said, cushioning my head with my arm. “But if you want to do this, that’s okay too. Your room is probably more comfortable, though.”
His sobs tapered to sniffles as he thought it over. Finally, just as my tailbone started to ache from the hard floor, he mumbled a shaky, “Okay.”
“Awesome.” I stood up, then waited for him to join me. When he did, all he had left were a few shuddering breaths. I let out a small sigh of relief. Sometimes the patient-voice-of-reason tactic worked, sometimes it didn’t. Drake almost never fell for it.
Mason’s bedroom was downright prehistoric. Plastic dinosaurs adorned the shelf above his twin-sized bed, which was covered with a dinosaur-patterned comforter. A stegosaurus-shaped lamp sat on the dresser next to a giant plush T-rex. It was very Jurassic Park-ish, aside from his rug, which featured a colorful race track on a green background.
“I have this strange feeling,” I said as he kneeled in front of his toy box, “that you like dinosaurs.”
He glanced back at me with an Are you kidding me right now? expression that was such an exact copy of Ryan’s, I couldn’t help but laugh. “Yeah,” he said, then went back to digging in the toy box. He pulled out a plastic bin filled with multi-colored blocks, the old-fashioned painted wood kind. My chest ached with memories.
“My brother and sister have a set of these,” I said, sitting cross-legged on the race track rug. Mason sat in front of me and opened the bin. “Do you remember meeting them? Drake and Lila? You played on the playground together after gymnastics one day. They’re the same age as you.”
He nodded, even though he looked unsure. He’d only met them once, and that was almost two months ago now, a long time for a three-year-old. I dug out my phone and showed him my home screen image—the twins’ faces, pressed cheek-to-cheek and grinning. I’d taken it the day they left.
“Can I play with them again?” Mason asked, studying the picture.
I slid my phone back in my pocket. “They’re not here anymore,” I said. “They live with their grandparents now.”
He nodded again, this time in understanding. He stayed with his grandparents a lot; he knew the drill.
We played with blocks for a while, Mason hoarding all the green ones because clearly, going by his room, green was his favorite color. We built elaborate towers and then knocked them down using various small toys for stand-in wrecking balls. Mason seemed impressed that I could do explosion sound effects.
“Where’s their mommy?” he asked after our fifth tower demolition.
I looked up from the rubble of blocks, confused. Mason pointed to my phone, which I’d taken out of my pocket and placed on the rug because it was digging into me. He meant Drake and Lila.
“Florida,” I said after a pause.
“Is that far away?”
I built the base for another tower. “Pretty far, yeah.”
He considered this for a few moments as he examined the floor for more green blocks. He found one near the edge of the rug and plucked it out, adding it to the rest of the stockpile by his leg. “My mommy’s far away too,” he said.
I glanced up at him again, startled. His mother wasn’t that far away—only an hour by car—but like the passage of time, the distance must have felt long to him. I wondered what Ryan had told him about her. He seemed almost desperate to protect him from anything negative or upsetting.
“You want to see her?” Mason asked suddenly. Before I could answer, he got up and ran over to the small bookshelf at the foot of his bed, extracting a small yellow book with a cartoon picture of a turtle on the cover. He came back over and plopped down on my lap, holding the book with both hands. Only it wasn’t a book, I realized upon closer inspection. It was a small photo album, the spine creased with use.
I held my breath as he flipped open the cover, revealing the first picture—a small, dark-haired woman, standing in what appeared to be the Monahans’ back yard. She rested one hand on her slightly swelled stomach, her face glowing like it was lit within. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders in shiny waves, and her smile was Mason’s, right down to the faint dimple in the left cheek.
She was beautiful. Ryan called me beautiful all the time, but Chelsea was beautiful in a completely different way—dark, curvy, sultry. I tried to imagine her sitting next to Ryan at his parents’ dinner table on Sundays, eating her weight in food and joking around with Nicole, but I couldn’t. The only images I could see were the ones I didn’t want to. Her and Ryan, sharing Snickers bars. Her and Ryan, kissing. Her and Ryan, in bed together.
Jealously curdled in my stomach, sour and irrational, and it was all I could do not to slam the album closed, bring it out to the living room, and chuck it off the balcony. But I didn’t, because Mason just wanted me to see his mom.
The first few pages were all Chelsea, her baby bump more pronounced with each picture. This was chronological, obviously, the illustrated story of how Mason grew and came to be. We studied each image together, Mason limp and heavy against my chest as I rested my chin against his curls. My breath caught again when we reached the middle of the album and Ryan appeared, standing next to Chelsea in front of a stately white building, a strip of snow-covered grass in the foreground. He looked younger. Happier. She looked happy too, her bulging belly poking out through the long coat she was wearing over her dress. Their wedding day.
“I’m in there,” Mason said, touching his mother’s stomach.
“Yes, you are,” I agreed, my voice wobbling. “Did your mommy give you this? The album?”
He nodded against my collarbone. “She gave it to me but I was a baby so I don’t remember.”
She gave it to you so you would remember, I thought as he turned the page again. The next shot was of Chelsea in a hospital bed, blue gown slipping off one shoulder as she held newborn Mason in her arms. They were both unbearably beautiful. The album continued like this, most pictures containing Mason and his mom together, just the two of them. Him sleeping against her shoulder. Her feeding him solid food for the first time. Helping him walk. His first birthday party, the two of them grinning over a giant cake in the shape of a number one.
She was drinking again at this point, I realized as I stared into her bright, golden-brown eyes. In a few months’ time, she would toss back some wine, secure that sweet little baby into his car seat, and drive away. And even though it happened long ago, and Mason was okay, my heart thumped with terror at the possibilities.
“Come on, Mason,” I said, closing the album and setting it aside. I’d seen enough for today. “Let’s get out of here for a while.”
Chapter 21
Mason had a hard time choosing which car seat to sit in on the way to the playground. He finally decided on Lila’s, probably because it was green. I was just glad he was comfortable enough with me to let me take him places on my own. He was generally an easygoing child, content to sit back and wait for whatever came next. And bombard me with questions, of course.
“Where’s Daddy?” he asked as we drove through town. I knew Oakfield had a big playground. Somewhere.
“He’s…” I almost said “at the store” like Jane always did, but changed it to, “…with your nana and papa, remember?”
“What are they doing?”
“Um…” I spotted the playground up ahead, next to an unkempt soccer field. “I’m not sure.”
; His sneakers kicked against the back of my seat. “Is Isaac there?”
“No.”
“Is Uncle Garrett there?”
I parked along the curb and shut off the engine. “Yes,” I said, then got out before he ran down the names of his entire family. “Look!” I said cheerfully as I unbuckled him. “This place has a saucer swing.”
“What’s a saucy swing?”
I took his hand and led him down the grassy hill to the playground. “That’s a saucy swing.”
We stayed for over an hour, Mason never tiring as he scaled up and down each piece of equipment. The only way I got him out of there was with the promise of food. Starving, we drove back into town and stopped at a cute little sandwich shop for toasted turkey subs with Ranch. Mason’s choice.
It was after six by the time we got back to the apartment. Ryan was already inside, waiting for us. He must have just gotten back because he still wore his suit.
“Daddy,” Mason shouted, charging toward him. Ryan reached down and picked him up, settling him against his side. “You came back.”
“I came back,” he confirmed, and then met my eyes over his son’s head. “How’d it go?”
“Fine.” I gave him the general run-down of our day, skipping the part about the photo album. I didn’t want to think about that right now. “How did…your thing go?” I asked when I was through.
He shrugged, jostling Mason. “As well as they ever go, I guess.”
Suddenly I felt awkward and out of place. I sifted through my purse for his spare set of apartment keys and handed them over. “Well,” I began.
“Do you have to leave right now?” Ryan shifted closer to me, Mason still nestled against his shoulder. “Or can you stay for a bit?”
I looked at him. His eyes, usually so vibrant, were dull and bloodshot. Vulnerable. “I can stay,” I said, dropping my purse.
We spent the rest of the evening watching Backyardigans with Mason. When he started yawning, Ryan steered him down the hallway for a bath and then bed. I stayed on the couch, flicking through channels but not really paying attention to the screen. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop thinking about that photo album. How pretty Chelsea was. How happy she and Ryan had looked on their wedding day. The way Mason gazed at the pictures, interested but detached, like his mother was a fictional character in a book, not even real.
Mostly, I wondered if she regretted what she’d done to make him look at her that way.
“Sorry.” Ryan sank down onto the couch beside me and scrubbed a hand along his jaw, looking for the stubble he’d shaved off this morning. “He convinced me to read him two books, then he asked me a million questions about where I was and who was there.”
I smiled. I had firsthand experience in Mason-style interrogation now.
“Hopefully he wasn’t too much of a handful for you today,” he said.
“Um, I’m used to twins.” I knocked his knee with mine. His was still in the suit, minus the jacket and tie, and he’d undone the top two buttons of his dress shirt. I felt a pang of desire, followed quickly by shame. His uncle just died. “We had fun,” I said, averting my eyes to Tyrone the guinea pig, who was scuttling around her cage. “He’s a great kid, and so smart.”
His face relaxed for the first time all day and he smiled proudly. “Yeah, he’s amazing.”
I thought about the pictures again, debating on whether I should mention that I’d seen them. Or maybe Mason had already told him. Finally, I just came out with it. “So. Mason showed me his little photo album today. The one with the turtle on the cover.”
When Ryan looked at me, I could tell he knew exactly the one I was talking about. “He did?”
I nodded and crossed my legs, avoiding his eyes again. “She’s beautiful. You looked really happy together. You and her. The three of you.”
“Well, we were, at one point,” he said, his tone cautious. “And yes, she’s beautiful. So are you. You know that, right? You’re not one of those girls who thinks they’re plain even though they’re obviously gorgeous, are you?”
I rolled my eyes. I knew I wasn’t ugly, but I didn’t want to get into the intrinsic differences between confidence and vanity at the moment. “Do you miss her?” I asked him, more curious than jealous now.
He got quiet for a moment, and my heart dropped. I didn’t want to get involved with someone who was hung up on his ex. Especially an ex who looked like that. And who gave him a son. I could not compete with that kind of history, even with her drinking problem.
“I miss who she used to be,” he said in the same careful tone. “But I don’t miss the person she became. So I guess that’s a yes and a no?”
I relaxed somewhat. I could live with a yes/no. It was better than a straight yes.
Ryan slid his arm around my shoulders and eased me toward him, kissing my forehead. I nestled into his shoulder like Mason had done earlier. “Was it awful?” I asked, straightening his drooping collar. “The funeral?” I refrained from adding that I’d never actually been to one. No one close to me had ever died, but then again, I wasn’t close to very many people.
“Yeah,” he said, stroking my hair. “It was awful, but necessary too, you know? People need that closure.” He yawned, his chin brushing against my temple. I leaned back and watched him rub his eyes, which must have been burning from tiredness and the emotional toll of the day.
“Come on,” I said, standing up and yanking him along with me.
“Where are we going?”
I stood behind him and directed him toward the hallway. “I’m putting you to bed,” I said. “You’re beat.”
“Putting me to bed?” he repeated, incredulous. “What am I, three? Are you going to bathe me too?”
I paused, considering this. I’d totally do it if he asked me to. But then he shook his head and smirked, letting me know he was kidding. Damn.
“Can I at least brush my teeth first?” he asked when we got to his room.
“I suppose.”
He shot me his you’re crazy look and headed for the bathroom, returning a few minutes later with minty breath and a completely unbuttoned shirt. I swallowed.
“What now?” he asked, unbuckling his belt and tossing it on the floor. “Are you planning on tucking me in?”
I stared at his naked abdomen, wondering how inappropriate it would be to seduce a grieving man. Clearing my throat, I said, “No, I think you can manage.”
He removed his shirt next, then his pants, each item joining the belt on the floor near the bed. Once he was down to his underwear, he got under the covers and then looked at me, still standing in the middle of the room with my mouth hanging open. I shook myself out of my daze and shut it. “Okay,” I said, my voice higher than usual. “I guess you’re all set then.”
“Not yet.” He beckoned to me with one hand. I shuffled toward him like I was attached to an invisible string and perched on the edge of the bed. “I hate for this to get any weirder by sounding like Mason,” he said, “but I don’t want to go to sleep.”
“Really? After today, you’re still up for…”
He took my hand and pressed it to the front of his boxers. Okay, then. Silly me.
Seconds later I was on my back on the bed, pinioned between his body and the mattress. “Should we…?” I whispered as he unhooked my bra.
“Yes,” he said.
“No, I mean…with Mason here...I don’t think I can be quiet.”
“He sleeps through thunderstorms.” He got my bra off and moved on to my jeans, pushing them down along with my underwear. Once they were disposed of, his fingers skimmed back up my bare legs until they found their destination. I whimpered and clutched his forearm, my nails digging in. “Make as much noise as you want,” he said, his voice low in my ear.
I bit my lip and then his shoulder, holding myself back until everything around me fell away and nothing else mattered but this.
* * *
The next morning, I woke up dizzy and disoriented with
a blue triceratops in my face.
“Why are you in Daddy’s bed?”
I lifted my head and looked at Mason, who stood directly in front of me in a pair of red pajamas, hair sticking up from sleep and a stuffed dinosaur cradled in his arms. “Um,” I said, delivering a swift kick to Ryan’s leg under the covers. He stirred and mumbled incoherently. “I guess I just…fell asleep here.”
Hearing my voice, Ryan awakened fully and then half-sat up, blinking at Mason over my shoulder. “Oh,” he said, meaning Oh shit.
“What happened to your alarm?” I said to him under my breath while Mason continued to stare at us, intrigued and slightly confused. Before we fell asleep last night, Ryan told me that his son woke up every morning at six without fail, so he’d set his phone alarm for five-thirty, giving me enough time to clear out before Mason saw me. But going by the hazy sunlight coming through the window, it was past five-thirty.
“Oh,” Ryan said again as he checked his phone. “Forgot to turn the volume back up when I got home yesterday. Oops.”
I glanced at his screen and saw that it was six-fifteen. My cheeks burned. How long had Mason been standing there? At least we weren’t naked, thank God. We’d had just enough fortitude last night to pull on some clothing before collapsing from exhaustion. Ryan had on boxer shorts and I wore a T-shirt I’d borrowed from him over my bikini briefs.
Mason, apparently accepting of this change in routine, tucked his triceratops under one arm and climbed into bed with us. “I sleep with Daddy when I’m sick,” he told me, settling into the narrow space between me and the edge of the mattress. “Are you sick?”
“I do feel like I’m coming down with something, yeah.” I pretended to cough, trying to ignore the quiver of Ryan’s chest against my back as he struggled not to laugh.
Mason reached up and laid a small hand on my forehead. “I don’t feel a fever,” he said seriously.
Now I was struggling not to laugh. “Good. I’m sure I’ll be fine, then.”
Until Now Page 17