Page 49 of Lance

Lance

It’s strange how quickly life can settle into a pattern. Even though my entire world has been turned upside down, even though everything is completely different from the way it was before Angie showed up, it doesn’t take very long for my new situation to feel almost…normal.Routine.

It turns out that working for a major record label has perks I’d never considered. Louis talked to someone in the office and within hours I was put in touch with a real estate agent, a personal shopper, and a social worker at the local school district. They work quickly to find us a small, fully furnished rental house— in the middle of boring suburbia—and to get Simon enrolled in kindergarten. Within three days we’re out of the hotel and settled into our newplace.

In the meantime, word comes back from the lawyer that the DNA test confirmed my paternity. I don’t think anyone was really surprised by that, least of all me. The judge grants me custody while the lawyers direct their focus to trying to find Angie. When I get the call about the paternity test, I somehow manage to keep the panic at bay. If anything I feel something more like resignation—this kid is going to be my responsibility for a while. Every day I repeat the words my mother said on the phone—a kid needs a safe place to live, a bed to sleep in, food to eat, and clothes to wear. Everything else can come withtime.

So I try not to feel too guilty that Simon and I aren’t exactly bonding. That when we’re together, he spends most of the time watching me with something like wariness in his dark little eyes. That I’m much happier when I’m working at the recording studio or doing promotional work with the band than I am when I’m home with him. I try not to worry that I spend a lot of time fantasizing about Angie coming back and relieving me of these responsibilities. I’m keeping the kid safe and warm and fed, right? Those things I can do. Worrying about all the other ways I could fail him is just a waste oftime.

Thank God for Willa. She comes in the morning and makes sure he’s ready for school, then she picks him up at the end of the day. If the band has obligations or we’re working late in the studio, she hangs out with him until bedtime. He seems happy enough with the arrangement. They read comics and draw and spend hours most days splashing around in the pool. And if I sometimes catch her watching me with that reproachful look in her eyes while I keep my distance, well, I guess that flash of guilt is a small price to pay for how well she takes care ofSimon.

One Friday about three weeks after we moved in, I duck out of the studio early so I can be home to take delivery of my one splurge since the band started bringing in real money—a baby grand piano of my very own. Of course my mom had never been able to afford something like this when I was still at home—I’d made due with an ancient, perpetually out-of-tune upright we’d found at a garage sale. Since then I’d pretty much been on the road or bouncing between temporary apartments so my only option was an electric keyboard—and that just wasn’t the same. As far as I’m concerned, the opportunity to own a real piano is one of the few bright sides to this strange new domesticity I now find myselfin.

I direct the delivery guys to set it up in the corner of the living room. I would have preferred to have it somewhere more out of the way, like my bedroom— I can’t help but wince at the thought of sticky six-year-old fingers touching the keys—but this is the only place big enough to fit it. After they’ve left, I sit down on the bench, my fingers trailing over the shiny ivory, feeling that strange mixture of pure calm and heart-pounding excitement that only ever comes to me in front of a piano. This instrument is fuckinggorgeous.

Before I can find out if it sounds as good as it looks, the front door bangs open. I glance over at the clock on the cable box to find that it’s later than I thought. Simon and Willa must behome.

I get up to go meet them and find Simon in the kitchen, taking off his still shiny-new Captain America backpack. His eyes, I notice, are wide and serious. “I think Willa is sad,” he says in lieu of agreeting.

“Why do you thinkthat?”

“She wasn’t talking much in the car.” Hmm. Considering the way the two of them jabber when they’re together, that does sound like a red flag. “And,” he continues, lowering his voice. “She kept wiping her eyes. That’s what my mom always did when she didn’t want me to know she wascrying.”

There’s something about the matter-of-fact way he refers to his mom crying that has a sharp pain shooting into my chest. How often did that happen? Before I can ask him, Willa appears in the kitchen. “Hey,” she says, and she sounds a bit congested. Her eyes are red, too. Looks like Simon was right about the crying. “I thought you were recordingtoday?”

“I cut out early,” I explain. “For the pianodelivery.”

She nods vaguely but Simon’s face lights up. “The piano is here? Can Isee?”

“In a minute,” I tell him, my eyes onWilla.

She doesn’t meet my gaze, instead turning to a cupboard. “Animal crackers for your snack?” she asks Simon. “Orgoldfish?”

“Goldfish,” he says in a small voice, looking between the two of us with a worried expression, his excitement about the piano apparentlyfaded.

“Hey, Simon,” I say softly, crouching over so our faces are close together. “Will you take your snack in the living room and watch some TV so I can talk toWilla?”

“Willa says I’m not supposed to eat in front of the TV,” hewhispers.

“It’s okay thisonce.”

He peers up into my face, looking downright scared now. “She’s not going to go away, isshe?”

“Why would you saythat?”

“My mom was sad and she wentaway.”

Shit. He should probably be talking to a professional about his mom. They have shrinks just for kids, right? Fuck, why am I so clueless about this shit? I probably should have gotten him in to see a counselor from the get go. I make a mental note to talk to the pediatrician about it when he goes in next week. Or rather, to talk to Willa about talking to the pediatrician, because God knows she’s probably going to be the one to take him. I release a frustrated breath, feeling worthless, and meet his worriedgaze.

“Willa isn’t going anywhere, okay? I just want to talk to her and see if she needs to be cheeredup.”

“I can help cheer her up,” he saysquickly.

“You don’t need to worry about any of this,” I tell himfirmly.

“What doesn’t he need to worry about?” Willa asks, appearing with a bowl of goldfish crackers and a cup ofjuice.

“I told him he could take his snack to the TV today,” I tell her. Simon still has that wide-eyed worried look on his face, but he takes his snack without a word. “You can look at the piano,” I tell him. “But don’t touch anything until I come in.” He nods, shooting Willa once last glance before heading into the livingroom.