Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 131821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
What are you sad for, baby?
For you?
For me?
Payton breaks our stare, blinking as she glances off. “I’m here for some more work with the Avix Inquirer. They have some new ideas they want to try out and asked for me again, so…”
Pride swells, and I offer as much of a smile as I can muster. “That’s good, Pretty Little. I’m happy for you.”
Her brows pull tight, and she nods. “Anyway, I’m staying at the same place as…last time. Maybe you want to—”
Come over? Be with you for a while? Hope sparks…
“—take him for a little while? You could bring him to me in an hour or two, whenever you want to, really.”
That hope is snuffed out, buried beneath boulder after ten-ton boulder.
I regard her closely, a pit of emptiness gnawing at my insides. “Without you?”
Payton drops her eyes to the ground, and I watch as tears slide along her cheeks.
But they make no sense to me, so I don’t fold to the overwhelming need to protect. To safeguard her and hold her tight. I don’t go to her, wipe them away, and beg her to let me make her feel better.
All I do is nod, climb from the car, and tuck my little man to my chest. Reaching back in, I snag the diaper bag off the floorboard. I say not a word to her as we slip past, ignore Chase’s questioning look on my way, and walk right into the football house, disappearing into my private room up the stairs.
I want to be angry.
I want to scream and yell and demand a reason for all the shit she’s not saying, but as soon as the thought comes, it washes away, because my boy is in my arms.
At least she gave me this.
Just like that, my mind completely resets, and for the first time in a long time, unwavering contentment flows through my veins.
This is what I want.
Afternoons with my main man, doing nothing and everything all at once.
“Okay, little man.” I toss a blanket on the floor, throw some pillows around it, and set him on his butt, dropping to my belly before him. “I watched some of your pop’s tournament videos with him, and I think it’s time I show you a thing or two. What do you say?”
Deaton sprays me with spit, speaking in some foreign baby languages before launching at me in a crawl of epic speed.
I laugh as he throws himself half over my body, pushing with his legs.
“Look at you, a natural.” I hook his arms around my neck, pretending he spins me, settling him so his legs are sprawled out to the side. “That’s a pin! And Deaton Vermont gets the W in the first round.” We do a few more moves, my big guy laughing and clapping all the way as we wrestle around the floor. I lift him into the air over my head, using his weight like a pair of dumbbells. “You’ll be the best little wrestler the world’s ever seen.” I smile, making silly faces and fucking melting when he copies what I do.
Twenty minutes or so in, I drop onto my back, having worked up an actual sweat, and laugh as he copies me, lying out flat beside me.
“Can you give knuckles?” I reach out, smiling when he slaps my hand and starts saying “mama” over and over, because that seems to be his favorite word. “Like this.” I take his hand and make a little fist, pushing it against mine. “Boom!” I say when our fists touch, and he cracks up, sticking his knuckles out to me over and over and doing his best to mimic the sound I make.
I fold my arms behind my head when he gets distracted, watching his every move as he pushes onto his butt, then presses his hands on my ribs.
“Aw.” I pretend he pins me down, and he laughs, shoving up onto his feet and clapping for himself.
Every muscle in my body freezes as I stare. “Holy shit…you’re standing.”
Slowly, I push into a sitting position, sneakily scooting back a few feet, and spread my legs out on the carpet.
My arms are outstretched and shaking as I stare at this little freaking miracle, afraid he might fall even though he looks steady as a rock standing there. “Little D, are you walking now?” I don’t mean to whisper, but the words come out that way.
Deaton keeps on clapping, and then his right leg lifts, planting down a few inches forward.
Fumbling around, I quickly shove my hand in my pocket, snag my phone, and press record before propping it up with some of the pillows to our left, hoping to hell he’s in the shot.
My mom is gonna die when she sees this.
Unless she already knows.
Maybe everyone knows but me.
Pressure falls on my chest, but when his left leg lifts and he comes even closer, all that washes away.