4. Ronan
four
Ronan
I see them through the playground fence on my way to Murphy's.
Theo's on the climbing structure, going up something that's at the limit of what a four-year-old should be attempting. Hallie is below him with her hands up. He's not listening to whatever she's saying. She knows he's not listening. She keeps her hands up anyway.
He makes it to the top. Looks out over the playground like he's just summited something. She drops her hands and laughs, and I stop walking.
Then he comes down and his foot slips on the last rung.
He doesn't fall far. Knee catches the edge, he drops the last foot to the ground, and he's already looking at his knee by the time I'm through the gate.
Hallie gets there a half-second after me. She's moving, but something in her is fighting the moving, some override, and I'm already crouched down.
"Let me see."
He holds out his knee. Scrape, not deep, bleeding a little. He looks at it, then at me, his cheeks are red and his eyes are welling with tears.
“You’re ok, bud.” I pull the kit from my jacket — I've carried one since I was twenty-two — and open it up. "There's going to be about three seconds of sting. Count with me."
He nods bravely.
We count. I clean the scrape on one, the antiseptic on two, the bandage going on by three. He flinches on two but holds still.
"Done," I tell him.
Hallie lets out a breath behind me, and drops to her knees, hugging her son.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
“He’ll be fine,” I say, packing up my things. “Scraped knees are a sign of a fun childhood.” I can’t help but crack a grin.
Theo stands up and walks straight back to the climbing structure.
I straighten up beside Hallie. She's still looking at my hands and her jaw is tight. When she notices me noticing she looks away fast.
"Thank you," she says.
"He's fine."
"I know." A beat. "I freeze sometimes."
I don't tell her it's fine or that she shouldn't. I just stand there next to her, and we watch him go up the structure again, more carefully this time. After a while, her shoulders come down.
I'm still there that evening.
Maple had a shelf coming loose in the back hallway, which took ten minutes. Then Hallie came out to the porch when she saw my truck because Theo went to sleep an hour ago. I've got no reason to still be sitting on these steps except that I am, and she hasn't gone in.
She's quiet for a while first. Looking at the mountains going dark.
Then she says: "His name is Brad."
I don't say anything. She needs to get this out. I let her.
"We were together four years. Theo was two when I finally—" She stops.
Starts again. "It wasn't hitting. I want to be clear about that, because I spent a long time telling myself that meant it wasn't bad.
It was just — everything went through him.
What I wore. Who I talked to. I stopped calling my sister because it was easier than the conversation that came after.
" A pause. "I stopped knowing what I actually wanted because by the time I figured it out it wasn't worth the argument. "
The porch light makes a small orange circle around us. Crickets. The mountains settling into dark.
"How did you know to leave?" I ask.
She thinks about it. "I was standing in the kitchen at two in the morning and something just opened up. I thought if I don't go right now I never will." She looks at her hands. "So I went."
"Good," I say.
She looks at me sideways, like she was expecting something else and doesn't know what to do with one word.
We sit with that for a moment.
"He'll come looking," she says.
"Maybe."
"He doesn't lose things easily."
I look at my hands and then at her. "He won't get near you."
She turns to look at me and I can see that she wants to believe it and doesn't trust the wanting, working through both at the same time.
"You don't know that," she says.
"No. But I'll know when he shows up."
Something shifts in her face. She looks at me for a long moment, really looks, the porch light catching her eyes, and I stay where I am and let her look for as long as she needs to.
Then she closes the distance and kisses me.
Soft and careful, her hand coming up to rest against my jaw like she's steadying herself, and I go still.
Everything in me goes still. I don't reach for her.
I don't move at all. I just sit there with her mouth on mine and her hand warm against my face and think: this.
Right here. This is what I've been sitting on these steps for.
She starts to pull back.
"Sorry."
"Don't apologize." Low. Careful.
She's close, her breath against my mouth, her hand still on my jaw. "I don't know what I'm doing."
"That's okay." I mean it. I'd wait all night on these steps if that's what she needed. "Only if you want to. That's all that matters. You want this, I'm here. You don't, I get in my truck and we forget it."
She searches my face. Whatever she's looking for she finds enough of.
She kisses me again, fuller, her fingers curling slightly against my jaw — and I bring one hand up slow and rest it over hers, just covering it, just that, and feel her breath catch against my mouth.
It's the best thing I've felt in years. Maybe longer.
When she finally pulls back she's looking at me, and I feel like the world is swirling around us.
Then she sees Boots.
Boots is in the truck with her nose pressed to the windshield, ears straight up, watching us with the focused attention of someone who has been invested in this outcome for some time.
Hallie stares at her. "Has she been there this whole time?"
"Probably."
She laughs. She likes dogs; that’s good. Another checkmark on my list.
"Go home," she says. Still smiling.
I get in the truck. Boots moves over to let me in and immediately puts her nose on my arm, warm and solid, and I sit there for a moment in the dark with the hotel porch light still visible in the mirror.
Hallie has already gone inside.