Fumbled (Playbook #2)(27)

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?”