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)
With a deep breath, I step closer, smiling at my son. “Hey, little man. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
Mason’s eyes are soft as they peer down at me. “You don’t have to do so much in one day, you know. We can come back another time.”
“I know,” I whisper. “But I want to.”
The pride that stares back at me is enough to drive me forward. Together, the three of us pile around the small space dedicated to Deaton Vermont, the boy who left us too soon but blessed our lives before his was taken. We sit in silence, words not needed.
A little while later, Deaton pushes to his feet, and I watch as he walks over to the headstone, having no clue what it is. Still, when his little palm reaches out to touch it, something has him stretching out his other one until his fingers are pressed to Mason’s shoulder.
With one hand on the headstone, the other on Mason, my little boy brings his eyes to mine. He smiles, that big, toothy grin I live for, and suddenly, the pressure that’s lived in my chest, the guilt that held me down for the better part of a year…it disappears.
Vanishes.
All that’s left is clarity.
It’s like suddenly the world makes sense, like I’ve evolved in the span of a blink.
I know now life won’t always be easy, and obstacles will always place themselves in our way, but we can work through them.
We can overcome anything if we can get past this, so long as we do it together.
When I look up, I find Mason staring, and he pulls his phone from his pocket with an uneasy expression. “Can I show you something?” he whispers.
I nod, and he pulls up an old social media profile picture of Deaton.
A frown builds along my brow, but I wait, watching as he tugs Deaton into his lap and places the phone in front of his face.
“Hey, big guy,” he whispers. “Who is that?”
Deaton just slaps the screen a few times, and Mason looks up with a sheepish smile, then back down, bouncing him on his knee as he points at the screen again. “Who is that, Little D?”
Deaton smiles, and then he says, “Da, da, da, da.”
My mouth falls open, a choppy laugh escaping. “Wha…” I trail off.
Deaton looks up, starting right at Mason, one finger stuck inside his mouth as he grins around it. “Da, da, da.”
Mason’s head snaps up in panic. “He’s not calling me that. I just taught him the word and—”
“He is.” I cut him off, and Mason swallows, eyes moving between mine. “He knows, Mase. He knows who you are to him.”
“Baby.” His jaw clenches tight.
“Deaton is his father.” My eyes cloud with tears. “But you’re the only dad he’s ever known.”
Mason reaches out, tethering our hands together. “We’ll make sure he knows him, too.”
I nod, because I know we will.
We’ll figure out everything.
As a family.
Me, Mase, and our son.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Payton
Now, November
We left the cemetery just before dark, and while Sarah had originally asked if I’d come back for dinner, I had to call and let her down. The day was too heavy, and I just want to be with my boys. Chase ended up taking Sarah’s offer to sleep in Nate’s old room, but Mason booked us a room at the little hotel a couple of blocks away.
It’s a little after nine now, and we’re just stepping into the hotel room, Deaton in my arms and the playpen in Mason’s.
He makes quick work of setting it up, laying the last blanket across the bottom as I approach, and I gently lay Deaton down.
He twists instantly, curling up into a little ball, and Mason eases his favorite blanket over him.
Smiling, I turn toward my bag, but Mason’s palm presses to my hip.
He pushes until I’m facing him completely, and then he shuffles closer, forcing me backward, and he doesn’t stop until my back hits the wall, his fingers locking tight against my skin.
My mouth opens, but he shakes his head.
“No,” he whispers, his tone husky, his focus on my mouth, so I snap it closed, and his twitches in the corner. “That’s right, Pretty Little,” he rasps, his thumb stretching under my chin and tipping my neck up and to the side. “I’m calling all the shots tonight.” He dips forward, and I shiver when he runs his nose up my neck. “I’ve waited so fucking long to have you in my hands.” His palm slides along my ribs, past my hips until he’s squeezing my ass in his strong hand. He groans, and my chest inflates with a sharp inhale. “And I’ll be damned if I don’t take time now that you are.” His teeth meet my jaw, and I grip his shoulders. “I’m gonna fix you a bubble bath, baby.” His head lifts, and he kisses me hard on the lips, hissing as he tears away, his forehead pressing to mine. “And you’re not getting out until you’ve come at least twice.”