Page 54 of Cockpit
“But you loved her, right?”
“Very much.” I barely get the words out, the animosity almost making me choke on them. “We were planning on getting married . . . but in our case . . . our case was just different.”
He plucks at his pants with his fingers, his eyes downcast. “Do you miss my mom?”
No. I hate her more each and every day for doing this to you. For being too selfish to see how incredible you are. For not fighting for you. For not choosing you.
“You always have a choice.”
Sidney’s words are right there in my ears, and I hate them as much as I need to hear them.
“Of course I do. I miss her mostly because I think she’d love to see how awesome you are.”
“I wish I knew her.”
When he looks at me this time, I meet his gaze head-on. My lips want to tell him she doesn’t deserve to meet him and know how incredible he is. She doesn’t warrant the time I take to write cards to him with different penmanship so he thinks they are from her. She doesn’t merit a goddamn thing when it comes to my son.
“You do know her. She’s a part of you, just like I am. No matter how far away she is, that will never change.” I press a kiss to the top of his head and pick another memory to tell him about, when, really, I need to address him punching someone today. “There was this one time when you were a baby . . .”
So, we sit there, letting the evening fade to night as I retell Luke stories about memories he’ll never remember on his own. Stories that every kid should know about their life. Stories that let him know how much he is loved even though his mom isn’t here.
When his giggles subside and his soft snores fill the room, I sit with him for a while and can’t help but despise Claire even more when I thought I hated her enough. Then I carry him upstairs, forgo the brushing of his teeth, and put him into my bed.
Then I watch him sleep.
I take in the red mark on the cheekbone that has the same line as his mother’s, the subtle dent in his chin that resembles my father, and the freckles over his nose that somehow make him seem more innocent.
I know that I may be doing the complete wrong thing when it comes to him and the memory of his mother. I may be screwing him up more than I’m helping him with these stories and lies and that someday, he may hate me because of it. But if him hating me is the price I am going to have to pay for giving him these small moments of peace, then I’ll pay it. They make him feel whole and loved and worthy of that love, so fuck anyone who tells me I’m in the wrong.
Parenting is a succession of
brutal decisions, each one tougher than the last, with the only goal being not to fuck up your kid any more than you already have.
It’s much later, after I’ve had a couple of beers and sat on the porch swing alone, that I crawl into bed beside my son with the knowledge that no matter what Claire did or didn’t do, I have one thing to be thankful to her for.
Luke.
He’s the reason I keep fighting.
“You should take the rest of the day off, Rissa. I’ll cover the office.”
She looks at me as if I’ve grown two heads. “Why?”
“Because the third round of voting is a go. We’ve already had more traffic in the first few hours than we did in the first week of last round’s vote. And because . . . because it’s sunny outside. Do we need another reason?”
“Maybe because you’re trying to get me out of here so I don’t call you on the carpet and ask why Grayson’s bio is the same one I saw you working on in longhand and the photo is from the party?” She lifts her eyebrows and meets my gaze. “Perhaps?”
“Perhaps, but it was simply a matter of circumstance. We didn’t get him on board until too late and”—the look she gives me stops me in my tracks—“and I’ll stop my excuse about now.” She gives a measured nod. “I can’t control someone else. All I can do is cajole and persuade and inform and do my best. So, while I try to get all that to work, I’m busy trying to master all the other things you’ve told me are important to know.”
She crosses her arms over her chest and leans back in her chair. “Such as?”
“Edie is showing me the process by which she goes through editing content. Fran has put together a little tutorial on graphics and resizing because I struggle there, and in turn, I’m explaining how I track my progress through the statistics, so she understands. Then there’s—”
“Point made, Sidney.” She shakes her head. “On that note, I’m heading home.”
She doesn’t waste any time grabbing her stuff and heading to the door before something happens that I can’t handle and change my mind.
For the rest of the afternoon, I sit and watch the numbers the first day of voting brings in. I stay and make sure that nothing goes wrong with the site—no glitches or missing links or whatever else could go wrong. By the time I’m happy that we’ve had a successful launch and am ready to leave, I realize I don’t want to go home to an empty house. An empty house means I’ll end up working. Working means I’ll think of Grayson.
