Chapter 15
15
[Vale]
A fter my restless night, I’m sluggish despite the need to hurry.
Hudson and Atticus have baseball practice, and Atticus is in a panic because he doesn’t have any of his stuff.
He eventually reached his father who promised to bring Atticus’s equipment to the ballpark.
Henry, however, arrives late and Atticus doesn’t even address his dad, other than grabbing his ball bag and cleats from his father’s outstretched hand.
Eventually, Henry nears where I’ve set up two camp chairs.
One for myself and one for Amelia who is enraptured by the book she picked to read last night.
“Henry,” I greet him through gritted teeth.
“Miss Sylver.” He’s all smiles and charm, and an I-got-laid-last-night ease.
Quickly, I stand and move in a way Henry needs to turn his back on his child and face me, blocking her from witnessing me rip this man a new one.
“You have some nerve,” I whisper, glaring at him.
“If you needed a sitter for your kids, or a night off, you could have at least asked me.” I not only feel taken advantage of, but a bit underappreciated for stepping up for his kids.
I won’t even get into the whole idea of him possibly leaving his kids alone for a night while he galivanted around.
“Well, you know how it is.” He winks.
I shiver and cross my arms. “Actually, I don’t know how it is.” I don’t have the luxury—nor desire—to dump my kid on others or let him fend for himself.
Even with my brother and I living together, I don’t assume Stone will care for Hudson.
My son is my responsibility.
Henry’s smile turns salacious, slithering up his face, and causing me to shudder.
“I could help with that. Anytime. You just ask.”
My mouth pops open.
“She won’t be asking.” The sharp, curt masculine voice behind me sends a new kind of ripple down my spine.
When did Cort come over here?
Even more befuddling is I can’t decide if I’m appreciative that he’s defending me or irritated he isn’t letting me speak for myself.
I’m not used to someone standing up for me.
Not like this.
Henry glances over my shoulder but I resist turning, keeping my hard glare on his once-smug face which has turned a little sour.
On the tip of his tongue is a retort.
I don’t have to hear it to know it will be something insinuating and insulting.
However, Henry swallows whatever he intended to say.
Instead, he slips his hands into his pants’ pockets—pants a little too formal for a Saturday morning baseball practice for children—and gazes toward the practice field, narrowing his eyes .
“Maybe you should get to coaching our kids,” Henry mutters.
“Maybe you should be parenting your own.”
Shock skitters over my skin at the strength of Cort’s scolding.
Henry turns on Cort.
“Don’t make me report this team.”
“For what?” Cort snorts, bristling behind me.
Among other things, Henry has been vocal about Kennedy Archer as a girl making the team.
My gaze shifts to Amelia, only a few feet away, behind her father.
Certain she’s no longer reading but listening to adults bicker with one another, I spin enough to share a glance with Cort and tip my head in her direction.
His eyes widen at her nearness before his nostrils flare and he walks away, the bigger man of the two.
Henry smirks. “Put him in his place.” He dips his chin, pleased with himself.
He is his only fan.
“Amelia,” he states sharply.
“Let’s go.” He tilts his head toward the parking area.
“Where?” Her eyes narrow in suspicion at her father.
“Breakfast.” Henry turns toward me and tweaks one brow.
“I didn’t get enough to eat last night.”
Gross .
“I already ate at Hudson’s.”
Henry’s weasel-eyes jolt away from me, glance at Amelia and then return to me.
“At Hudson’s?” The truth hits him slowly, like he hadn’t known that his daughter spent the night at my house as well.
He steps closer to me.
“There better not have been any shenanigans between your son and my daughter.”
My mouth falls open again as I form fists at my side, wondering if I can get away with punching him in the nose like my brothers taught me as a child .
“Amelia slept in a guest room; however, I’m insulted at the insinuation. They are children and I’m a good parent.” I jab at my chest, angered by the implication.
I’d never allow something to happen to Amelia, even with my own son, at such a young age.
Suddenly, I’m vibrating.
A flash of memory I do not want nor need right now whispers through my head.
“And you’re implying I’m not a good parent?” Henry fires back.
“You know what, Daddy? I’d love a second breakfast,” Amelia interjects, quickly standing and setting the book down on the chair.
I hate how she’s trying to diffuse a situation between adults and a second memory crosses my mind.
Attempting to get between Sebastian and my father.
Yelling at Knox that nothing happened.
With a gut punch sensation in my belly, I glance at Amelia, full of sympathy and fear for her.
She’s eleven. A child.
An innocent girl who missed her stuffed animal last night and slept with a bear to protect her in a strange-to-her house.
Everything in me says to intervene.
To tell Amelia she doesn’t need to go with him.
She can stay with me, here at the park.
Read her book. Ignore her dad.
I did it as best I could most of my life, but the triggers have me paralyzed, and within minutes, Amelia has her father by the hand, leading him away from me.
Henry isn’t reciprocating her touch as much as allowing her to tug him along and I sink into the camp chair, caught in the crossfire of painful memories, shame, and confusion.
I watch Amelia leave with Henry before I glance toward the ballfield to find Cort’s eyes are on me.
He steps forward but I shake my head, warning him not to come near me.
If he gets too close, I’m going to shatter.
And the last thing I want is Cortland Haven seeing all my pieces.