The Guy on the Left (The Underdogs, #2)(50)



“Sorry,” he holds up the spatula, “I’m mid flip, don’t want to burn anything.”

I nod and swallow as two sets of eyes study me.

Get it together. Get it together.

“Mommy, you need a chill pill,” Dante says through a laugh.

“Where did you learn that?” I look up to Troy, who shrugs.

“Don’t look at me.”

“We don’t take pills to chill around here, young man. You got that?!”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Troy ushers me into the seat next to him. “Have a seat,” he says, gently sitting me down. “I’ll make you some breakfast too.”

It’s clear both men think I’m on the verge of snapping, so I do what I’m told as Dante places a napkin across my lap. “It’s okay, Mommy, just relax.”

Dante stands on his seat, grabbing the carton and pours me some orange juice. After taking a sip, I glance over at him as Troy busies himself at the stove.

“I’m sorry you had a bad time.”

“It’s okay. Troy made it all better.”

I don’t miss Troy’s smile as he plates up our breakfast.





Dante crosses his silverware on his plate. “May I be excused? I’m full.”

“Only one game,” Troy says, “We’re leaving soon.”

“Yes, sir.”

I sip my coffee and eye Troy. “Where will you take him?”

“Camping at the lake. That okay?”

“Sure.”

With all the commotion this morning, I didn’t have time to drink him in. He’s dressed in a grey long john shirt that hugs his every muscle and somehow makes his eyes pop. His strawberry hair is getting longer, has more wave, and is brushed away from his face. His jaw covered in day-old stubble. He looks every part the rugged man. And I’m pretty sure I look every part the ragged woman. But none of that matters as I fight with my conscience about the events of the last twenty-four hours.

“I know what you’re thinking, and you need to stop,” Troy says, crumpling up his napkin and throwing it on his plate.

“I can’t help it. I drink one glass of wine,” I wince, “okay three, and decide to unplug, and he needed me. What if you weren’t here?”

“Don’t. I was here, and I’m so damned happy about that fact, so let me have my moment, okay?”

I nod, and he leans over and tips my chin, so I’m facing him.

“Promise me you won’t beat yourself up about it.”

“It was past eight, so I thought it was safe to relax.”

“You don’t have to explain it to me, Clarissa. I know you would never, ever, put him in harm’s way.”

“But I did. I knew those kids weren’t his friends, but I wanted so much for him to fit in somewhere. I’m a fucking high school teacher, I know how cruel kids can be. What was I thinking?”

“I was thinking the same. I’ve noticed he doesn’t invite friends over or get invited either. I was hoping for what you were. I’m just as guilty. But he’s special, too sensitive for those brutes. He’s got quirks, he’s different, and that’s okay. It’s more than okay.”

“How about the lining up of his toys,” I grin. “How they have to be just so. And the way he gets possessive about the weirdest stuff.”

“He’s a neat freak for sure.”

“Hey, don’t you dare touch that.”

We smile at each other.

“When he was just a baby, he was addicted to Animusic. He played those videos over and over and over again, and it took me a while to realize he was memorizing them. He was almost two the first time he climbed up to my PC and started using a mouse. He could barely talk in sentences then.”

“He’s scary smart.”

“What are we going to do?”

Troy shrugs. “Let him be him. Exactly what we’ve been doing.”

“They won’t understand him,” I say fearfully.

“Someone will,” he says intently. “Someday, maybe sooner, maybe later, someone is going to stop and take notice of how special he is and stake their claim in his life. Trust me. It’ll happen more than once.”

I sniff. “When did you get so good at saying the perfect thing?”

“I’m a practicing father. Was that all right?”

“Better than.”

A tear runs down my cheek, and he moves to sit next to me, studying it.

“What are you doing?” I ask as he leans in.

“It’s beautiful, you know,” he says, lifting it away with his thumb. “It’s a mother’s love.”

We’re so close. If just one of us gives, our lips will touch. Troy lingers as I inhale his scent, his masculinity. In seconds, I get lost in his stare, the fullness of his lips, the weight and gravity of our connection. This can’t happen.

“Excuse me,” I say, lifting only to bang my knee on the table. Troy curses under his breath as Dante returns from the living room. “Where are you going?” He asks as I move to retreat to my bedroom.

“To get dressed.” And scream in a pillow.





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