Chapter 4 - Debbie
I'm helping Maria fold laundry in the living room when I hear Tyler's voice from the front porch, bright and excited in the way that always makes my heart skip. But when I catch the words he's saying, my blood turns to ice.
"Do you want to play baseball with me? My mom doesn't know how to throw a ball right."
I drop the towel I'm holding and rush to the window, my bare feet silent on the hardwood floor.
Through the glass, I can see Derek—Ghost—standing at the bottom of the porch steps, looking like he's been caught completely off guard.
Tyler is bouncing on his toes in front of him, clutching his worn baseball glove like it's the most precious thing in the world.
"Tyler," I call through the screen door, trying to keep my voice calm even though panic is clawing at my throat. "Come inside, baby."
But Tyler ignores me, too focused on the massive man in front of him who probably looks like a giant from a four-year-old's perspective.
"I have a ball and everything. Mom got it for me at the store, but she throws like a girl."
I cringe at the words. Something David used to say, something Tyler picked up before I could catch it. Another reminder of all the ways my ex-husband poisoned our lives, even in the smallest details.
"Tyler, now." My voice comes out sharper than I intend, and I see Derek's head turn toward the door. Even from this distance, I can feel the weight of his attention.
"But Mom—"
"Your mom's right," Derek says quietly, his deep voice carrying easily across the small yard. "You should go inside."
For a moment, I think that's the end of it. That Tyler will listen and come back in, and Derek will get on his motorcycle and disappear for the rest of the day. It would be safer that way. Simpler.
But Tyler doesn't move. Instead, he tilts his head up at Derek with the kind of fearless curiosity that children have before the world teaches them to be afraid.
"Are you scared of my mom?"
From my position by the window, I can see Derek's shoulders tense, can see him glance toward the door where he knows I'm listening. I should intervene, should go out there and drag Tyler inside before this gets any more complicated.
Instead, I find myself holding my breath, waiting to hear what he'll say.
"No," Derek says finally. "I'm not scared of your mom. But she's trying to keep you safe, and that means listening when she tells you to come inside."
"But I just want to play baseball." Tyler's voice takes on that whining tone that means he's gearing up for a full meltdown. "Nobody ever wants to play with me."
It's true, and I hate that it's true. The other children at the shelter are either too young or too traumatized to play, and I.
.. I've never been good at sports. David used to mock the way I threw, used to say I was embarrassing myself and him every time I tried to play catch with Tyler in the backyard.
So, I stopped trying.
"Please?" Tyler continues, his small voice carrying a note of desperation that makes my chest tight. "Just for a little bit? I promise I'll go inside after."
I should say no. Should march out there and explain to my four-year-old that we don't ask dangerous bikers to play games with us, no matter how lonely we are. Should remind him that we're supposed to be invisible here, quiet and grateful and not causing any trouble for the people trying to help us.
But Derek surprises me.
"Alright," he says, and his voice is gentler than I've ever heard it. "Just for a few minutes. But if your mom says it's time to stop, we stop. Deal?"
"Deal!" Tyler practically vibrates with excitement, running toward the side yard where there's a small patch of grass between the shelter and the neighboring house.
I watch through the window as Derek follows him, slowly, like he's approaching a wild animal he doesn't want to spook. Everything about his body language screams restraint, control, like he's hyper-aware of his size and strength in relation to the small boy bouncing around him.
"That's sweet," Maria says from behind me, making me jump. I'd forgotten she was there, forgotten about the laundry, forgotten about everything except the surreal scene playing out in the yard.
"It's not sweet," I mutter, but I don't move away from the window. "It's... I don't know what it is."
"It's a man being kind to a little boy who needs a father figure."
"Tyler doesn't need a father figure." The words come out harsher than I intended, defensive and sharp. "He has me. I'm enough."
Maria's reflection appears in the window beside mine, her dark eyes sad and knowing. She's been at the shelter for six months, long enough to work through some of her own trauma, long enough to recognize the signs in others.
"Of course you're enough. But that doesn't mean Tyler doesn't miss having a man in his life. A good man."
"And what makes you think he's good?" I gesture toward the window where Derek is now kneeling in the grass, adjusting Tyler's grip on the baseball glove. "Just because he's being nice for five minutes doesn't mean—"
"Look at him," Maria interrupts gently. "Really look."
So I do. I watch as Derek positions himself about ten feet away from Tyler, close enough to make sure the ball reaches him but far enough that Tyler won't be intimidated by his size.
I watch as he underhands the ball with just enough force that Tyler can catch it.
I watch as Tyler misses the return throw by a mile, sending the ball rolling toward the street, and Derek jogs after it without complaint.
"See how he moves?" Maria continues. "Slow, predictable. No sudden movements. No raised voice when Tyler messes up. He knows what he's doing."
She's right, and I hate that she's right. Derek moves like someone who understands trauma, who recognizes the signs of a child who's learned to flinch at loud noises and quick movements. Every gesture is telegraphed, every word spoken clearly and calmly.
"Mom, look!" Tyler's voice pulls my attention back to the game. "I caught it!"
And he did. Derek lobbed the ball in a perfect arc, and Tyler managed to snag it in his glove, his whole face lighting up with pride. Without thinking, I smile and give him a thumbs up through the window.
"He's good with kids," Maria observes. "Natural."
I want to argue, want to point out all the reasons why this is a bad idea. But watching Tyler beam with accomplishment, watching him actually succeed, I can't find the words.
David never played catch with Tyler. Said he was too young, too uncoordinated, too much trouble. Even when Tyler got older and started asking, David would always have an excuse. Too tired from work, too busy with his buddies, too annoyed by Tyler's constant chatter.
But here's this man, this stranger who looks like he could bench press a car, patiently teaching my son to throw a baseball like it's the most important thing in the world.
"Time to come in, Tyler," I call out, surprising myself with the reluctance in my voice.
"Five more minutes?" Tyler calls back, but he's already heading toward the porch, his face flushed with exertion and happiness.
"Now, baby. Derek has other things to do."
Derek nods and hands Tyler the baseball. "Thanks for the game, kid. You've got a good arm."
Tyler practically glows under the praise. "Really?"
"Really. Keep practicing, and you'll be ready for Little League before you know it."
Little League. As if we'll be in one place long enough for Tyler to join a team. As if I have money for uniforms and equipment and all the things normal kids take for granted. But Derek says it like it's a given, like of course Tyler will have those opportunities.
Like we have a future beyond just surviving.
"Can we play again tomorrow?" Tyler asks as he climbs the porch steps.
Derek glances at me through the screen door, and I see him weighing his answer. "We'll see," he says finally. "Depends on what your mom thinks."
It's the perfect response. Not a promise, but not a rejection either. Putting the decision in my hands where it belongs.
Tyler bounds through the door and wraps his arms around my waist, still buzzing with excitement. "Did you see me catch it, Mom? Did you see?"
"I saw, baby. You did great."
Through the screen, I watch Derek walk back toward his motorcycle. But he stops at the bike and turns back, his eyes finding mine across the distance.
"Thank you," I mouth, not sure if he can see me clearly enough to read my lips.
He nods once, a small gesture that somehow carries more weight than words, then swings his leg over the bike and starts the engine. The rumble fills the air, but it doesn't sound threatening anymore. It just sounds like... Derek.
"He's nice," Tyler says, pressing his face against the screen to watch Derek pull away from the curb. "I like him."
"Tyler—" I start, ready to give him the speech about not getting attached to people who might not stick around. But the words die in my throat when I see the hope in his eyes, the way his shoulders aren't hunched with tension for the first time in weeks.
"Can I put my glove away in the special place?" he asks, referring to the small box under his bed where he keeps his most precious possessions.
"Of course you can."
He races upstairs, and I'm left standing by the door with Maria, who's watching me with knowing eyes.
"He's going to want to play again tomorrow," she says.
"I know."
"And the day after that."
"I know."
"And Derek's going to say yes, because he's already half in love with that little boy."
I turn to stare at her. "What?"
"You should have seen his face when Tyler caught that ball.
Like watching his own son succeed." Maria folds the last towel and sets it on the pile.
"Some men are dangerous because they don't know how to love.
Others are dangerous because they love too much, too hard.
You need to figure out which kind he is. "
The words follow me as I head upstairs to check on Tyler, echoing in my mind like a warning I'm not sure I'm ready to heed. In his room, I find him placing his baseball glove in his treasure box, handling it like it's made of gold.
"Mom?" he says without looking up. "Do you think Derek has kids?"
The question catches me off guard. "I don't know, baby. Why?"
"Because he knew exactly how to show me the right way to hold my glove. And he didn't get mad when I missed the ball." Tyler closes the box and slides it back under his bed. "Daddies are supposed to teach their kids stuff like that, right?"
My heart breaks a little more. "Some daddies do, yes."
"My daddy never did."
Tyler rarely mentions David anymore, and when he does, it's usually with the kind of matter-of-fact acceptance that children have about things they can't change. But this feels different. This feels like the beginning of understanding that what we had wasn't normal.
"No," I agree quietly. "He didn't."
"Derek's not my daddy, but he taught me anyway."
"Yes, he did."
Tyler considers this, his four-year-old brain working through concepts that are too big for someone his age to fully grasp. "That was nice of him."
"It was very nice of him."
Later, after Tyler's asleep and the shelter has settled into its evening quiet, I find myself standing by the kitchen window, looking out at the street where Derek's motorcycle was parked this morning.
The space is empty now, but somehow I can still feel his presence, still hear the patient tone of his voice as he coached Tyler through throwing a baseball.
Some men are dangerous because they don't know how to love. Others are dangerous because they love too much, too hard.
Maria's words circle through my mind as I watch the streetlights flicker on, casting long shadows across the pavement.
I think about the way Derek moved around Tyler, the genuine pride in his voice when he praised my son's progress.
I think about the way he looked at me through the screen door, asking permission before making any promises.
For the first time since we arrived at the shelter, Tyler fell asleep without asking when we were going home. Without asking if his daddy was going to find us. Without the usual fears that keep both of us awake most nights.
Maybe that should worry me. Maybe I should be concerned that my son is already getting attached to a man who could disappear from our lives as quickly as he entered it.
But right now, all I can think about is the sound of Tyler's laughter echoing across the yard, and the way Derek's face softened when he heard it.
Maybe some risks are worth taking.
Maybe some people are worth trusting.
Maybe we both deserve to have someone who thinks teaching a little boy to play baseball is the most important thing they could be doing on a Tuesday morning.