Page 58 of Bedtime Stories
Chapter
Twenty-Four
OREN
Ihug the weighted cover tighter around me. The cartoons flickering in the dim room, but I barely notice. My thumb hovers over the chat window, debating whether to tell my friends I’m okay.
Then my phone buzzes. Keane.
“Hey, kiddo,” he says, calmly. “I know you’ve been keeping to yourself. That’s fine. I just want to check in. You’re safe, right?”
I nod even though he can’t see me. “Yeah. I’m… fine.”
“Good. I’ll keep checking in every hour,” he says. “Remember our plan. Screenshots, privacy, locks. If anything happens, you call me first. Got it?”
“Got it,” I whisper, finally feeling some of the tension in my chest ease.
After he hangs up, I sink deeper into the couch, the blanket cocooning me. I glance at the screen again, replying to friends one by one. The group chat lights up with notifications—questions, emojis, teasing—but I can handle it now. I can actually type back without feeling like I’m unraveling.
It’s the best I’ve felt all day. Strong. Brave. Self-assured.
To reward myself with a small treat, I grab my jacket and head out because there’s only so much hiding I can do before the heavy fleece begins to feel smothering instead of comforting.
I dragmy feet across the shiny tiles of the mall, trying to shake the restless energy buzzing under my skin. I find myself at the carousel, kids squealing and parents laughing, and I grin at the horses. The line isn’t long. Maybe a quick ride will take my mind off things.
But then I catch a glimpse of a man leaning against a nearby pillar—broad shoulders, tailored jacket, perfectly cut and styled hair. My stomach tightens. That can’t be…? My brain insists it’s him. My pulse races. I step out of line. My hands fumble with my phone, thumb hovering over Keane’s number, but I don’t call. Not yet. Just… keeping it there, just in case.
I duck into a toy store, the bright colors and noise a small comfort. Parents bustle past, kids tug at shopping carts, and I let myself sink into the crowd, pretending I’m invisible. The closer, busier aisles help, give me breathing space. I take a few deep breaths. Maybe my mind is playing tricks on me. Maybe he’s not here.
I wander past shelves filled with action figures, puzzles, and plush animals, letting my fingers trail along the boxes. My eyes land on a jigsaw puzzle, something calm and methodical. A distraction. Something to focus on. I pick it up, along with a tiny, floppy baby duck that looks just like Quackers. The waves in my stomach calm a bit. Familiar comfort, even in the middle of all this chaos.
I slip them under my arm, checking the aisles once more. No signs of him. No reason to panic. Not yet. Even so, Keane’s number glows at the top of my screen. Just in case.
Clutching the puzzle and baby Quackers a little too tightly, I weave through the crowded aisles. My eyes dart toward the entrance and every mirror reflection. Every man who looks vaguely familiar makes my heart hammer.
Keane’s voice echoes in my mind:breathe, slow down, remember you’re safe.I almost tap his number, almost send a quick “I’m fine” text, but I stop. Not yet. A small victory would be staying in control, proving I’m not just a scared little boy hiding.
At the checkout line, I pause, pretending to study a display of miniature stuffed animals while scanning the store for any sign of Vince. Nothing. No one from the past. No… him. My chest eases slightly, though the knot in my stomach remains stubborn.
I fumble with my wallet, carefully placing the puzzle and duck on the counter, trying to act casual. Nearby, a kid squeals, pointing at a plush dinosaur. The sound snaps me back to the store’s normal energy—grounded, secure.
Stepping outside with my treasures in hand, a flicker of relief warms my chest. Sunlight hits my face, and for the first time since entering the mall, the anxiety loosens its grip. My thumb slides over Keane’s number again, a quiet reassurance.
Focusingon the puzzle is harder than it should be—pieces, colors, shapes blur together—and my fingers twitch almost uncontrollably. The pieces click under my fingers, colors lining up just right, when a sharp knock at the door makes me jump. Ice cubes rattle in the glass of cold brew, and I blink down at the puzzle, frowning.
“Coming!” I call, brushing my hands on my jeans.
I remember Keane’s warning to check and double check before opening the door, but Keane puts my mind to rest by calling out, “It’s me, baby.”
He’s leaning in the doorway, his brow raised as he takes me in. My stomach twists, part excitement, part nerves. Before I can think, he steps inside, reaching out with that easy, deliberate grace he has.
“Looks like someone’s enjoying a snack,” he murmurs, tilting his head.
I open my mouth to protest, but he leans closer, lips brushing the whipped cream away in a slow, deliberate kiss. Heat blossoms in my chest, and I catch myself grinning.
“Thanks, Daddy,” I murmur, voice lower than I mean to.
He chuckles softly, that deep laugh that always makes me melt, and I realize how much I’ve missed him even in the few hours he was gone.
