Nick
Why does my house suddenly feel like a medieval torture chamber?
Grady has been here all of two minutes, and somehow, the hardwood floors seem—well, very, very hard.
The marble countertops are pointy and sharp and sit perfectly at his eye-level.
My houseplants … are they toxic? Have I always had this many knives?
What actually stops electricity from pulsing through power outlets? How the hell am I still alive?
I grab a bottle of water from the fridge, giving the appliance a cautious shove to ensure its stability. I hand it to Grady before sitting him down in the living room, placing a few throw pillows on the ground. Just in case.
Unable to reach Tiffany all day, I made the decision—the easiest decision—to bring Grady home with me. Over the past month, I've worked hard to earn her trust and Grady's trust. She could get mad at me, but she has to know by now that I'd never do anything that wasn't in our son's best interest.
“What does? The water?”
He nods, holding up the bottle. “It tastes like—like pennies.”
“Pennies? Now how do you know what pennies taste like?” I joke, taking the bottle from him.
He shrugs, tilting his head playfully back and forth.
“I have some milk and orange juice if you'd rather have that.”
“Water, please.”
I turn on the television and hand him the remote before retreating to the kitchen.
One glance inside my cabinets confirms I was wildly unprepared for a child.
Who the hell needs this much glassware? Thankfully, I find a sleeve of leftover plastic cups from a New Year's Eve party shoved in the back of the pantry.
I fill it up to the top using the filtered water dispenser in the fridge door—and then promptly dump out half because I'm an idiot.
When I return to the living room, Grady has escaped the padded cocoon of the sofa and is now standing two feet from the television.
“Can you see okay, partner?” I ask.
He nods, pushing up his glasses. “What are they doing?”
I watch for a few seconds as men and women in oversized streetwear spin, flip, and balance on their hands while a heavy bass line rattles the speakers.
“They're dancing,” I explain. “This style is called breaking.”
“Breaking?”
“Mm-hmm.” I hand him his water, making sure he uses both hands before returning my attention to the television.
“What are they breaking?” he asks, a crease forming on his forehead.
A laugh slips out. “Hopefully nothing expensive. I honestly don't know why they call it that, but hang on.” I pull out my phone. “Let's ask the internet.”
Grady suddenly winces, smacking his lips before sticking out his tongue in disgust.
“Whoa. What's with the face?”
He hands the cup back. “It tastes funny.”
I frown, sniffing the water before taking a sip myself.
What in the M. Night Shyamalan is going on here?
“Partner, it tastes like water.”
“It tastes like pennies.”
My gaze bounces from him to the cup. Does he have a mineral deficiency? A sensory thing? “Grady, what do you drink at home?”
“Water.”
“From the fridge or the sink?”
“The sink.”
I wonder … I tell Grady not to move as I head back to the kitchen, grab a new plastic cup, and fill it with water straight from the tap.
He eyes it suspiciously when I return before taking a cautious sip. Suddenly, his eyes light up, and he drains the entire cup.
I laugh, combing my fingers through his messy blond waves. “Someone was thirsty.”
He lets out a contented sigh. “Can you show me more dancing?”
“Uh... yeah. Sure.” I grin, settling onto the couch.
He climbs up beside me without hesitation, his little shoulder bumping mine as his attention drifts back to the television.
We stumble across a channel showcasing dance styles from around the world, watching everything from hip-hop to Irish step dancing to flamenco.
Much to my surprise, ballet captivated Grady the most, his eyes widening every time a ballerina effortlessly spun across the stage or balanced on the tips of her toes.
With his eyes trained on the television, he slips off the couch. He stretches onto the tips of his toes, his brow furrowed in concentration as he tries to imitate the ballerina. “How do they do that?”
“Lots and lots of practice, partner.”
He looks up at me. “Practice?”
“Sure, they take dance classes at a dance school, and then they have to try and try and try again. That's called practice.”
Grady quietly takes in my words before turning back to the television. Stretching his arms out to either side, he rises onto the tips of his toes and wobbles through an awkward little turn before he stumbles and catches himself. He glances back at me. “Can boys be ballerinas?”
“Yes,” I say. “Of course, they can.”
He looks at the dancers on the television again before sheepishly peering up at me. “Can I be a ballerina?”
The corner of my mouth curls. “Partner, you can be whatever you want to be.”
Grady beams, slowly turning back to the television and promptly wobbles through another clumsy spin.
Leaning back on the couch, I laugh quietly to myself as my beautiful boy commits to each unsteady jump and kick. He stumbles more than he succeeds, but even when he loses his balance, he giggles—and instantly tries again.
My son is resilient.
The afternoon slips into evening, and I still haven't heard from Tiffany.
Anger simmers beneath my skin as I find myself hoping there's been an emergency—not because I want anything bad to happen to her, but because I can't stomach the alternative that she actually forgot about Grady.
That she dropped him off and abandoned him.
I refuse to believe she's capable of that.
I need answers.
After making Grady's dinner request of buttered noodles, I consider contacting the police for a wellness check, but I think better of it, not wanting to get the law involved unless absolutely necessary. Instead, I contact the diner.
“Vinny’s Burgers, this is Tiffany.”
My pulse detonates. I don't care if she gets paid to sound cheerful; hearing her answer the phone like it's just another shift—like she didn't just abandon our son on a day that meant the world to him—unleashes a fury that blurs my vision.
“What the fuck, Tiffany?” I whisper-scream.
“Nick—?”
“Where the fuck were you today?”
She's silent as the roar of the diner fades to her footsteps and cricket chirps. “I know you're mad—”
“Are you fucking serious right now, Tiffany?”
“I'm sorry, I just—”
“Just what, huh?”
“Listen, I—”
“No-no-no, you listen. Do you have any fucking clue what you have done?” I sigh. “He was so excited to go today because you were going.”
“I know, I know—”
“No, I don't think you do know. He was devastated, Tiffany. If it wasn't for his teacher—”
“I dropped the ball, okay? I feel terrible—”
“But not terrible enough to pick up the goddamn phone …” I let out a pained grunt.
“I'm sorry … I-I left my wallet at home.”
“You left … your wallet … at home?” I slowly enunciate her words.
“I did. After I dropped Grady off at school.”
I chuff sardonically. “Do you hear yourself right now? What does your wallet have anything to do with forgetting our son?”
“I wasn't forgetting him!” she cries. “I was trying to get back before y'all even noticed I was gone. I thought ... I thought if I hurried, I could still make it back. I was trying to figure it out.”
My jaw ticks, my molars nearly breaking as a chill forms between us.
“Are you still there—?”
“Yes,” I bark. “I'm trying to understand how your goddamn wallet has anything to do with not calling the school or me or … literally anyone.”
“Because my phone died.”
I scoff. “Seriously, Tiffany?”
“It did! My charger quit working during the night, and I didn't realize it until this morning.” She takes a shaky breath. “So when I got my wallet, I got a new charger and went back home to charge it, and I guess I fell back asleep. I swear to God, it was an accident.”
My brain is spinning, my head pounding from a brewing headache. I literally cannot comprehend what she is saying—let alone form words to express how utterly ridiculous this story is.
She continues. “I'm really sorry. Nick. I swear, I didn't mean for this to happen. When I woke up, I called the school over and over, but nobody answered.”
“They eventually have to go home, too, Tiffany. To their children. You know? Like responsible parents.”
“You don't have to be such an asshole.”
“Do you honestly think I'm overreacting right now?” I huff. “If I had done this, you'd be ten times angrier than I am. Hell, you'd probably disappear with Grady and make damn sure I never saw him again.”
The truth hangs in the air for a moment before she continues. “You're right. I'm sorry.” She sniffles. “I made a terrible mistake.”
I blow out a heavy sigh. “How are you not losing your mind right now not knowing if he's safe or not?”
“I figured you had him.”
Oh. My. God.
I think I'm going to be sick.
I pull the phone away from my ear, tempted to throw it out a window and scream. This woman—this mother—assumed that someone else would pick up the slack and take care of her five-year-old child. What if no one had? Worse, what if the wrong person found him?
The only reason that boy is safe with me tonight is because of Leah.
Grady tugs on my pant leg. “Can I have some more noodles, Nick?”
I hold my hand over the receiver. “Sure, partner. Let me help you.”
“Is that Grady? Can I talk to him?”
I take a deep breath, watching my son climb back into his chair. He wiggles and hums to himself, tracing shapes in the butter remnants on his plate. Completely unaware. Completely innocent.
I am livid with Tiffany, and as much as I want to deny her this, I can't do that to him. She's the one person he wanted to be with today. If Tiffany and I have any hope of becoming the parents Grady deserves, it has to start somewhere.
Besides ... I know what it's like to be shown grace I didn't deserve.
I swallow the lump of pride in my throat and force a smile. “Hey, Grady, Mommy's on the phone.”
***
“‘Look at the dinosaurs, big and small, Each one was special. We love them all.’ The end.” I close the book, glancing down at Grady.
He's tucked in tight in my guest bedroom, wearing a pair of dinosaur pajamas I ordered through a same-day delivery app. I've removed anything remotely breakable or hazardous before raiding my own bedroom for enough pillows to cushion him from any middle-of-the-night tumbles.
I think there might be one more in the closet.
Tiffany and I agreed that he would stay with me tonight, and I would take him to school in the morning.
We're meeting for breakfast afterward to start putting together a schedule that works for Grady.
Today isn't forgotten, but I have a feeling Tiffany is exhausted, and it's forcing her to make poor decisions.
I think she's finally realizing she doesn't have to carry all of this by herself.
I'm hoping I have earned her trust by now that I'm not leaving.
I love Grady, and I want to spend more time with him. I need more time with him.
With his eyes fluttering closed, I carefully slide out of the pillow fort and tip-toe to the door.
“Are you going to work now?” he asks.
“To work? No partner. I'm going to sleep like you.” I smile. “I'll see you in the morning.”
“And you're coming back?”
I freeze. I steady myself against the wall, my heart crushed by his words —rather the fear behind his words. Will you abandon me, too?
I turn around and take a seat on the bed. “Of course, partner. I'll always come back for you.”
“Promise?”
I grin. “I'll do you one better. Have you ever heard of a pinky promise?”
His sleepy face brightens. “Ms. Harrison does those!”
I chuckle. “She does?” Am I really surprised?
“Uh-huh. She says that pinky promises are forever.”
“She's absolutely right. They are forever.”
“Whoa,” he whispers.
“Here.” I scoot closer. “Give me your hand.” I take my fifth finger and wrap it around his tiny pinkie.
“I promise that I will always be here for you.
And when we're apart, like for school or like when I'm at work, I will always come back for you, partner. I pinky promise.” I squeeze his finger before shaking his hand.
His eyes light up as he gives my hand another little shake before letting go.
I glance around the lifeless dark room when an idea hits me. “Do you want me to stay here tonight?”
He sits up, nodding enthusiastically.
I chuckle. “Scoot over, partner.” I climb into bed, grumbling and moving slowly enough to earn another sleepy laugh from him. After ruffling his hair, I fluff a pillow beneath my head. A comfortable silence settles over the room as the weight of the day finally catches up to me.
“Nick?”
“Yes, Grady?”
“Did you know some dinosaurs slept in groups?”
I yawn. “Is that so?”
“Uh-huh.” He yawns. “Kinda like us.”
My throat tightens. I glance down and take in his features, highlighted by the soft blue glow of the night. I study every sleepy little detail, committing the moment to memory.
"Yeah," I whisper, smiling into the darkness. "Kinda like us.”