CHAPTER 6
HAVEN
“Mommy,” Wilde pulls my attention to him where he’s impatiently waiting for me near the door with his little arms wrapped around his sketch pad, box of pastels, and a plastic pear. “You have to come and meet Knox today.”
My son, even at four, leaves no room for argument in his tone. It’s something he’s wanted me to do since I showed up at the end of last week’s art class and ushered him out of the room quickly.
I could say I wanted him out of the room because of the sheer size of the man teaching the class and be totally justified.
Knox isn’t just tall, but he’s burly and muscular.
He doesn’t have muscles like a guy who spends all of his free time in the gym, and I doubt he’s some fitness junkie because he has a little bit of a dad bod going on.
The moment I looked into his moss green eyes, I froze, and it had nothing to do with his size and everything to do with him. My body reacted to him in a way that completely shocked me. It was something I had never experienced before. Not even with him.
As much as something inside of me wanted to move closer to him, I called for Wilde and got out of there as fast as I could. If I looked like my ass was on fire, so be it.
Wilde didn’t seem to notice anything strange going on. He was too busy riding the excitement from his art class.
The way he presented what he drew during class was like he expected me to submit it to a museum for display. He wouldn’t be too far off either. It’s exceptionally good.
I was relieved as he gushed about Knox. Even though Wilde is young, Knox didn’t treat him like a kid who couldn’t understand art terms and techniques. He treated my son like an artist with talent.
The number of times I’ve heard the terms chiaroscuro over the last week is off the charts. Then there are the number of times he showed me what it means and how to use the technique. He was so damn happy to show me, there was no way I was going to do anything other than give him my full attention.
Not only did he tell me all about it, but he showed me with his sketch pad and pastels, the same ones he’s clutching to his chest right now like they are precious jewels. It’s not like I can blame him. Knox donated the supplies to make sure his students had what they needed.
Honestly, the man is racking up things I admire about him. He didn’t treat my son like a little kid without talent. He didn’t just get some cheap ass crayons and printer paper like it’s all these kids are worth.
The drawings from last week’s class have been hanging in the entryway of Safe House and I have a feeling we’ll just keep growing our little gallery wall. As it should be. Wilde isn’t the only kid who put a lot of effort and concentration into his drawing.
He even told me about the field of wildflowers that Knox drew. It was after the second book I read to him the night of art class. He was wired and I wasn’t sure he would go to sleep anytime soon.
“You should have seen the drawing Knox did, Mommy,” his little voice was filled with awe. “It was a beautiful field of wildflowers.”
I perked up because what he didn’t know, what he couldn’t possibly know—and neither could Knox—was my happy place being a field of wildflowers. It’s the space I always imagined when I needed a place to escape. It’s where my mind could be safe while my body endured.
“It wasn’t even done, but it felt like you could walk into his drawing and touch the flowers,” Wilde mused, his voice filled with an admiration I could only hope the man himself could live up to.
“I’m sure it was amazing,” I whispered. “Knox is a tattoo artist and makes a living making art.”
Wilde’s voice turned bright and curious, “Did you see all the tattoos he had?”
I could only smile softly at my son. “I saw them,” I assured him.
And I had. I’m sure it wasn’t even all of them because some were peeking out of the rolled-up sleeves of his flannel shirt. They were sexy as hell, but I wasn’t sure how to feel about my reaction to Knox.
It’s days later and I’m still not sure how I feel.
“Mommy,” Wilde whines and I shake my head while trying to hide my smile.
I’m sure there are more than a few parents out there who would cringe at hearing their child whine. Not me. It’s something Wilde didn’t feel safe enough to do before. Now he does and it speaks volumes.
“Okay, okay,” I acquiesce. “I’ll get dressed and we’ll head down to get some breakfast before class starts.”
Wilde sighs, the relief clear on his face as he shuffles over to his small bed and sits while still holding onto everything.
I chuckle under my breath and shake my head while mentally patting myself on the back for taking a shower last night.
I don’t think he would tolerate me taking longer than absolutely necessary this morning.
Even though I make sure to be quick, Wilde still shoots me a look like I’ve taken forever. After I run a brush through my hair, I do the same to him which owes me an eye roll.
“Looking good for art class isn’t a bad thing,” I point out.
“Yeah,” he grumbles, “you’re right. Knox’s hair was brushed.”
I make a humming sound in response because it’s all I can do. He’s not wrong. I only got a glimpse of him, but I still noticed his auburn hair. It looked soft and the longer strands on top seemed to be calling out for my fingers to be buried there.
As I glance around the room I’ve been sharing with Wilde, I let out a soft sigh. I’ve been able to save up a nice little nest egg and have been taking on more work. As much as I know we need our own place, including a space just for Wilde, it’s nice to have the cushion of being in the shelter.
But what if I’m taking up a spot that someone needs more than me? I’d feel horrible about it.
I’ve been putting together a budget, and I think we can make a small two-bedroom apartment work for us. If I need to get some more work, then I will.
The thought of putting Wilde in a physical school makes me feel anxious. What if it is what tips him off about where I am?
While I hate the thought of him looking for us, I can’t say for sure whether he is or not. Other than making sure Ed knows I’m safe, I haven’t had any contact with anyone in Connecticut. It’s for the best.
Even though I’ve been sharing a room with Wilde, I’m grateful it’s only the two of us in the room. It wouldn’t have surprised me if we were sharing with more people, but we lucked out this time around.
Which means we need to ensure we don’t overstay our welcome. Other women are in a more dangerous spot than I am, and I know it.
“Well, what are we waiting for?” I can’t help but tease Wilde.
It looks like he practically levitates from the edge of his bed to rush out of the room and toward the kitchen. I have to move double time to keep up with him, but I don’t admonish him. I’m glad he’s excited about class.
Considering how much I worried about him and how he would do with the teacher and the class, how can I be anything other than grateful for how well he’s doing? Art has already helped him so much. I’ll do anything to make sure he continues to grow and thrive.
The next step for us will be getting a place of our own.
I’ve been thinking about it more and more in the last week.
Talking to Avery and finding out he doesn’t have a legal leg to stand on when it comes to Wilde without going to court and how not getting married makes the break between us cleaner, has taken a lot off my shoulders.
Maybe it was a good thing he was never excited about being a father and was too wrapped up in his own shit to ask important questions when it comes to something as simple as the birth certificate. His indifference is my win.
Wilde is practically vibrating when I make it down to the kitchen. It’s adorable and Laura has to cover her mouth to hide her laughter.
“How about some cereal? It looks like you might not be willing to wait for anything else to be cooked,” Laura teases.
“Cereal would be great,” Wilde confirms.
He puts all his art supplies up on the table and I can’t help but grin down at the pear he chose. A few days ago, a set of plastic fruit arrived, and Wendy gathered all the kids from art class together to let them choose their favorite fruit.
Wilde immediately dove for the pear. The kid loves a pear, even more than an apple. One time I asked him about it, and he just shrugged while explaining, “Apples are harder, and I don’t like biting into them, but a pear is soft and perfect, especially when ripe.”
How could I argue with his brand of logic? I didn’t even try.
“While I get out your breakfast,” Laura offers as she picks up a translucent plastic bowl from the countertop, “would you mind taking this to where art class takes place? I thought it would be a nice bowl for the fruit today.”
Wilde lights up and nods his head eagerly. “I’ll take it in for you, Miss Laura.”
His hands are gentle as he takes the bowl from her. “Please be careful with it. It’s not glass, but if dropped it might crack,” Laura’s voice is soft as she warns him, not wanting to trigger anything.
I’m grateful for how mindful they are about what could scare the kids and navigate interactions with those considerations in mind.
Wilde has grown so much, especially here in Safe Home.
It’s another one of the reasons why I think staying here in Denver to set down some roots is the right thing to do.
And if Denver has men like Knox in it, it can’t be all bed.
I shake my head to try and get rid of the thought. The last thing I need in my life is a man. It’s only been a year since I left him and before then I had put years into the relationship. Well, calling it a relationship might be a little bit of a stretch.
Therapy has helped me see that I was never in a real relationship with him. It was all about control. It’s something I already knew, but hearing someone else say it is different. I don’t even know if I can explain why.