Twenty-Two
Kaiden
Okay, so I admit it. I’m beginning to feel a bit like a stalker.
I can’t help it. I know Aspen’s busy finishing her latest commission, but I’ve also recently discovered the piece has been brokered through a shell company belonging to La Cosa Nostra, which, even though Mika asked me to approach Aspen, has my spidey senses tingling.
So of course, I’ve been staking out her place to make sure she’s safe.
I don’t believe in coincidence. Life has taught me there’s no such thing.
I’ve been careful about my movements, rotating between different vehicles and positions so I don’t tip anyone off.
Plus, I know how independent she is now, and instinct tells me it won’t go down well if Aspen decides I’m nothing but a possessive, controlling asshole who refuses to observe her decisions.
And there’s another reason too. More unwanted intuition, if you like.
Something that’s been nagging at me since the day I went to visit.
Little things that keep niggling at my psyche.
Like how Aspen kept glancing towards her house when we talked.
The way she insisted on us getting out of there.
She said it was because of Helene, but while her mother wasn’t exactly welcoming, it wasn’t that much of a big deal when she found me there after our walk.
Much more worrying was the way her mother positioned herself like a human shield on the porch. The fear in Helene’s eyes wasn’t just about me hurting Aspen again. It was something more specific, more immediate. But what?
And then there’s the kid. He’s been the biggest shock.
I’ve seen him three times now. A skinny little boy of maybe eight years old. I’m not good with kids’ ages, having never been around any, so I’m guessing here.
But there’s something about him that raises the hair on the back of my neck.
Each time he’s left for school in the mornings, I’ve felt this weird pull in my chest I can’t explain.
He walks with his head down, hands shoved in his pockets, observing everything around him with quick, assessing glances that remind me of…
No. I shut that thought down before it can fully form. I’m seeing connections that aren’t there, because the idea that Aspen’s moved on, met someone else and had a child with him. Jeez, I don’t even want to think about it.
Perhaps Helene had another kid? Was that feasible? Or am I just clutching at straws because I don’t want to accept the alternative? Not that I’ve seen another guy around here at all.
And who the hell am I to judge anyway? I left her, so it’s not like I have any claim to insight about Aspen’s life.
Ten years is a long time, and she had every right to move on, build a family, and find happiness with someone who didn’t abandon her when she needed them most.
The thought sits like acid in my gut, but I force myself to acknowledge it.
Today, I’m parked half a block down from her place again, slouched in the driver’s seat of a nondescript sedan.
It’s a little past four, and I know from observation that the kid gets home from school around this time.
Is that why I chose it?
I push the thought away and check my rear-view mirror.
Sure enough, the kid appears around the corner, backpack slung over one shoulder.
As he approaches the house, I watch him through the side mirror, hoping to get a better view.
He’s got dark hair that needs a trim, falling into his eyes, and he keeps pushing it back with an impatient gesture that sends a jolt of recognition through me because I used to do the exact same thing at his age.
Stop it, I tell myself. You’re projecting.
Aspen wouldn’t do that to me. Would she?
But then he turns his head, checking for traffic before getting ready to cross the street, and my world stops.
I don’t even think about my next actions. I’m climbing out of the car before my brain has even clicked into gear. My hasty movement catches the boy’s attention, and from across the street our eyes clash; hold.
The Earth shifts on its axis. Everything I thought I ever knew is flipped on its head.
Time exists in slow motion, pausing, waiting, hanging by a quivering thread until it suddenly speeds up and hurtles out of control.
Without warning, or even so much as a second glance at the traffic, the kid legs it across the street, and I wish time had slowed again as a truck blasts its horn.
The boy whirls towards it, then skids to a halt and freezes. I’m moving once again without conscious thought. The vehicle is moving too fast. The driver slams on his brakes but slides across the tarmac while the kid looks on like a deer in headlights.
I scoop him up with scant feet to spare and allow my forward momentum to carry us sprawling onto the grass verge.
The irate driver yells out of his window while we’re both slumped there in a daze, trying to get our breathing under control.
“You need to teach your kid how to cross the road before you don’t have a son to worry about,” the guy bellows, shaking his fist, then his head, before he releases his handbrake with a hiss of air and continues on his way.
I’m still trying to process what just happened - the near miss, the adrenaline, the weight of the kid in my arms - when the man’s words arrow through me.
He could have been talking generically. Likely was. But that one word - son - slams into my frontal lobe, and I turn to stare at the boy.
The first thing that hits me is his eyes. Pale green, flecked with amber. Seafoam eyes that I’ve only ever seen on one other person in my entire life. There’s no doubt this is Aspen’s child.
My heart hammers against my ribs so hard it feels like it’s going to break free… not because of the eyes, but because looking at the rest of this boy’s features is like looking into an eighteen-year-old mirror.
I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t do anything but stare at this child who has my face.
My jawline. The same sharp cheekbones I inherited from a father I despise.
Even the way he holds his head and the calculating, waaay too adult look in his eyes is something I see in my own reflection every damn day.
“Are you okay?” I ask, helping him sit up while I scan him for injuries. No blood. No obvious signs of damage. Thank Christ. Still, the words come out rough, strangled, because my throat feels like it’s closing up.
The boy nods slowly, still sprawled half on top of me on the grass. “I think so.” His voice is shaky, and I can feel him trembling. The adrenaline crash is hitting him hard.
I force myself to loosen my grip, to give him space even though every instinct I have is screaming to hold on. To never let go. Because if I’m right about what I’m seeing - and fuck, how can I not be? - then this is...
No. I need to be sure before I let myself go there.
The kid has no such qualms. “Dad!” he exclaims, and the title slams into me with the force of the truck that nearly hit him, as his skinny arms wrap around my neck in a stranglehold. “You saved me! I knew you’d come. I told Mom you were a hero.”
Before I can respond, I hear the front door of Aspen’s house slam open behind us.
“Kai!”
Aspen’s voice cuts through the air, sharp with panic. I look up to see her running down the porch steps, her face pale, her eyes wide with terror.
Kai.
The name registers in my brain, but I’m still struggling with the reality, even though it’s staring me in the face. Literally.
The boy - Kai - stiffens, then reluctantly scrambles off me. “It’s okay, Mom. I’m okay. Dad saved me!”
But Aspen isn’t looking at him. She’s looking at me. And the expression on her face isn’t relief or gratitude. It’s pure, unadulterated fear.
“Inside. Now.” Her voice is hard, controlled in a way that tells me she’s barely holding it together.
“But Mom…”
“Now, Kai.”
The kid glances between us, confusion written across his features, but he obeys. I watch him trudge toward the house, shoulders hunched, and something in my chest twists painfully.
I push myself to my feet, brushing grass off my jacket while my mind races through a thousand calculations at once. The kid - Kai - my son, there’s no doubt left in my mind, given his name and his looks, which means...
Jesus Christ.
The timeline adds up perfectly. Six months we had together. Six months before I had to leave. Before the hit and run that put her in the hospital. Before I walked away to keep her safe.
She was already pregnant when I left.
The realization hits me like a physical blow, stealing what little breath I managed to recover. Aspen knew. She had to have known, at least eventually, and she never said a word. Never tried to contact me. Never told me I had a child.
She made me into the absent father I always refused to be.
I watch her usher Kai inside, one hand on his shoulder, protective and possessive, kneeling down in front of him and speaking quietly with him, her deft fingers travelling over him almost in a reflex action, checking for injuries.
She stands and pauses at the door, looking back at me with an expression I can’t quite read. Then she mouths two words. “Stay there.”
The door closes behind them, and I’m left standing on her front lawn like an idiot, trying to process what just happened.
My son almost died.
I have a son.
Aspen kept him from me for almost a decade.
The numbers run through my head on repeat. He’s nine, maybe even ten by now. Either way, that’s at least nine years of birthdays I missed. First steps. First words. His first day of school. Years of my child’s life that I’ll never get back.
And she knew. All this time I’ve been reconnecting with her, and she never said a word. So many things make sense now.
The anger builds slowly at first, then faster, hotter, until it’s a living thing in my chest. My hands clench into fists at my sides. I want to storm into that house and demand answers. I want to rage at her for keeping this from me, for making me miss all those years with my son.
My son.
The words keep echoing in my head, and despite the fury, there’s something else too. Something that feels like wonder, like terror, like my entire world has shifted on its axis and I’m free-falling through space.
I have a son.
I’m cut off from my spiraling thoughts as the door opens again. Aspen steps out onto the porch alone, pulling it closed behind her.
She’s composed herself, her face carefully blank in that way that tells me she’s feeling everything but refusing to show it. I know that look. I’ve worn it myself countless times.
Her arms are wrapped around herself like she’s trying to hold the pieces together, but even from here I can see she’s shaking, despite her impassive expression.
I force myself to stay where I am, even though every instinct I have is screaming at me to close the distance between us. To demand answers. To shake her until she explains how the fuck she could keep something this monumental from me.
But I wait. Because that’s what I do. I watch, I calculate, and I wait for the right moment to strike.
Aspen descends the porch steps slowly, like she’s walking to her execution. When she reaches the sidewalk, she stops about ten feet away from me. Close enough to talk without the neighbors hearing, far enough that she can bolt if she needs to.
Smart. She’s always been smart.
“I was going to tell you,” she whispers.