Chapter 9 #2
Camden lets go of her and takes off with his arms at his sides, pretending to be a plane, while I offer Sloane my hand to help her stand.
She takes it, and the warmth of her skin feels like a burn with her palm against mine.
I tug gently, and she lifts onto her feet, falling into my chest. On instinct, I wrap my arms around her waist to steady her.
“Welcome home.” She smiles up at me.
“Thanks,” I say, releasing her and taking a step back. “What’s with all the flying?” I ask, watching my son zoom around the couch for the third time.
“Oh, we were out back blowing bubbles, and a plane flew over, so I made up a story about a little boy and his nanny going to watch his daddy play football.” Her cheeks turn the slightest shade of pink.
I smile. “I might need to hear this story,” I tease, enjoying the soft tint in her cheeks.
“It’s riveting. I assure you,” she fires back.
“Uh-huh,” I say, as my grin grows wider.
“Are you hungry? I made dinner—nothing fancy—but there’s a plate for you in the microwave. If you’re not, we just need to put it in the fridge.”
“I’m starving, actually. You didn’t have to make extra for me.”
“You’ve had a long day, and I was cooking for Cam and me, so it’s not like it was a lot more.”
“What did we have?”
“Cheesy chicken and rice with broccoli.”
“And you got him to eat it?”
She nods. “Yep. I told him only big boys who eat all their broccoli get to fly planes and play football like their daddy. I know it’s deceiving him, but it worked.” She shrugs.
“I’m all for it. It’s good for him.”
“Yeah, I mean, not covered in cheese, but it’s better than nothing.” She chuckles.
“I’d have to agree with you. I’ve learned over the last two years that you have to pick your battles, and oftentimes, the battle of vegetables is not one I like to fight. I make smoothies a lot, and he drinks them because I do,” I say, shrugging.
“Nice work, Daddy Sin.” Sloane holds her hand up for a high-five, and I slap my palm against hers.
“Swoan, pwane,” Camden says, running into her legs and gripping them tightly as he smiles up at her.
I watch as Sloane lifts Camden to her hip and gives him all her attention. “Well, now that your daddy is home, we need to let him eat dinner, and then, little man, it’s time for a book and bed for you.”
“No bed.” He shakes his head.
“Well, if you don’t go to sleep, how are we going to be rested enough for our trip to the park tomorrow?”
Camden furrows his brow and holds his arms out for me. I take him, hugging him close. “Sloane’s right,” I tell him. “It’s almost bedtime.”
“How about I give him a bath while you eat, and then you can read him a story?” she suggests.
“Let him play a little longer. Sit with me while I eat.” Something about coming home to a house filled with laughter, seeing her smile at me and my boy, makes me want to ask her more about their day together.
“Are you sure? I can go to my room and give the two of you some time.”
“I’m sure. Keep me company. Tell me more about your day.”
While I start the microwave, she slides into a chair at the island and gives me a rundown of their day together.
Once she’s finished, she asks me about day one at camp, and that’s how we spend the next twenty minutes.
I could have finished my plate in no time, because I’m starving and it was delicious, but I find myself eating slower to prolong this.
I know Camden needs to get into bed, but it’s so damn nice to have someone here at the end of the day.
Mrs. Ward was very much a "you're home, I’m leaving or going to my own space" kind of woman. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but some adult conversation at the end of a long day is nice.
“Swoan, up.” Camden stands next to her with his arms raised in the air. She lifts him to her lap and smooths his hair back out of his eyes.
“He needs a haircut,” I comment, smiling at my son.
“I can take him if you want? I don’t mind.”
“Really?”
“Of course. Is there a specific place you like to go?”
“There’s a barber not far from the stadium. I’ll text him and get an appointment. Thank you.”
“Did Mrs. Ward not do that for you?”
“No, but I never asked her either. He’s my son. I should be doing those things for him.”
“Baker,” she says softly. “You’re a dad with a busy career.
This little man knows how much you love him.
Mrs. Ward was here to help you. Now it’s my job.
I’m here to help ease your burden. Let me do that for you.
Ask me for help. I want to help you.” She smiles down at my son, who has his head resting on her shoulder as he plays with her hair. “Both of you.”
I nod as I finish my dinner. “Thank you,” I finally say. “Haircuts are not a part of your job, but it would be nice if we could get him a trim before the services.”
“Do you know when that will be?”
“No, but I’m guessing next week sometime, from what Levi’s family has told me.”
“Well, we’ll get this little guy all spiffed up with a fresh haircut, and he’ll be ready.”
“All right, bud, are you ready for a bath?” I ask my son.
“Swoan, baf,” he says, sleepily.
“Come on, you. Let’s get you clean and into some jammies.” Sloane stands, offers me a smile, and moves to carry him upstairs.
“I’ll take him,” I say, rushing to stand, and take him from her arms.
“Swoan,” Camden whimpers.
“I’m right here, sweetie,” she says, reaching out and offering him her hand.
That’s how we climb the stairs, the three of us linked together. In the bathroom, Sloane helps with his bath, at Camden’s insistence, and helps him into his pajamas.
“Do you want to pick out a book?” I ask my son.
He nods, rushes to the bookshelf in his room, and grabs a book before handing it to me and climbing into bed.
“Daddy,” he says, patting the spot next to him.
“So demanding,” I tease, climbing into his big-boy bed with him.
“I’ll be downstairs,” Sloane says, and turns.
“No!” Camden says. “Swoan, book.” He pats the other side of the bed.
Sloane’s eyes find mine. “King Cam has spoken,” I say, keeping my tone light. “Come read a book with us, Swoan,” I say her name just like Camden does.
“You two are too handsome to say no to,” she says, moving to climb into bed, on the other side of my son. She settles on her side, and when her eyes meet mine, all the air seems to be sucked out of the room.
When my son snuggles into her side, grabs my hand, and tugs, my heart hammers, but I move in close.
Closer to him, and closer to her, and I start to read.
I can’t help but think this is how it’s supposed to feel.
Having someone to share these moments with.
I know Sloane isn’t that person—that’s not why she’s here—but in this moment, it feels like it’s ours.
And for the first time in my life, I don’t know how to follow the play.