Chapter 10 #4
Once the floor was safe from rogue pieces of ceramic, Mateo darted off to find his shoes, glancing back at me with every step.
The cut wasn’t deep, but it stung sharply as I washed it clean. Taking a shaky breath, I searched for the first aid kit in the bathroom cabinet. Mateo watched from the bedroom doorway, shoes hanging from their laces around his neck.
I needed him to see that I could hold everything together, that no matter how precarious it felt, we would be okay.
“I’m okay, bud, I promise,” I called out.
He retreated into the room, but not before changing out of his superhero T-shirt into one of a cartoon wolf howling against a moon.
Inside the bathroom, my pulse throbbed in my palm as I sank to the floor to patch myself up. The antiseptic stung like hell, and I gritted my teeth as I worked. Bandaging a wound was easier than piecing together all the threads unwinding around me.
I should’ve learned by now that I couldn’t get too comfortable, that every moment of peace had a cost. The bleeding had almost stopped, but inside, something else felt like it might burst free if I let it.
With a sharp knock on the bathroom doorframe, Mateo leaned in just enough to be annoying. “Are you done yet?” he asked, already glancing down the hall like he had somewhere better to be.
“Yeah,” I wrapped my hand in another layer of gauze for good measure. “Let’s go.”
The city park was alive with the joy of children free from classrooms. I spread a blanket beneath an old maple and unpacked our food: peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (grape, never strawberry), juice boxes, Oreos, and, a treat, a grocery store rotisserie chicken.
Mateo devoured his sandwich and picked at the chicken skin with surgical focus. His sneakers drummed against the edge of the blanket, kicking up grass and brittle, sun-bleached leaves.
“Can we stay till sunset?” he asked, like it was no big deal. Like he wasn’t already hoping.
“Yeah.”
After eating, he flopped onto his back and folded his hands over his chest. “I wish every day were Saturday,” he announced.
I stretched out beside him, shielding my face from the sun. “If every day were Saturday, there’d be no one making fresh donuts at the bakery, or fixing the trains, or picking up the trash, or…”
He rolled onto his side, squinting at me. “But you hate Mondays.”
I laughed because he was right. And I loved him for knowing it. “I do hate Mondays,” I admitted.
He hesitated for half a second, then tossed an arm over my waist like it was accidental. “You could fix trains, if you wanted.”
“I could?”
“Yeah.” He shrugged. “You always fix stuff. Even when it’s annoying.”
A breeze rattled the branches overhead. Mateo’s eyelids drooped, not asleep, just… resting. For a moment, he looked younger than ten, unguarded, quiet.
We stayed in our patch of shade as hours slipped by: a half-hearted game of I Spy, Mateo ditching me to ride his bike with other kids, then circling back like he needed to check that I was still there. The city rumbled on around us, but didn’t feel like the world was closing in.
At dusk, when park lights flickered on, Mateo sprawled on the blanket. “Mom,” he said, “if you could be any animal, what would you be?”
I traced a circle on his shoulder. “Maybe a hawk. So I could fly away and get a bird’s-eye view.”
He smirked. “Figures.”
“And you?”
He didn’t answer right away. Then, quieter, “A wolf.”
I glanced at him.
“They’re strong,” he added, defensive now. “Even when people think they’re scary or bad.”
He curled his fingers into claws and let out a deliberately terrible howl, clearly performing. I answered him anyway, just as badly, and he laughed before looking around to see if anyone noticed.
Packing up, he found a feather tangled in the grass and stuck it behind my ear.
“For flying,” he said, already turning away like it didn’t matter.
“Thanks,” I said.
He pretended not to hear, but his shoulders lifted just a little.
As the park receded, the city embraced us once more. We took the long way home, our shadows merging under the hazy glow of streetlights.
The day had been a vibrant escape. The impending shift at Neon hung over me, and thoughts of Aiden infiltrated my mind as effortlessly. I strongly suspected he would be there tonight.
“Are we still ordering Chinese before you go to work?” Mateo’s voice floated down the hallway, already half-distracted.
“Absolutely! But no egg rolls until you’ve put on your pajamas,” I called back.
“That’s unfair,” he said immediately. A beat. “But fine.”
He’d be staying home with Ms. White, who’d be checking on him regularly.
Back at the apartment, Mateo moved through the evening with restless energy. He dragged his feet about bedtime on principle, but still showered without being reminded twice, steam fogging the bathroom mirror as music thumped faintly from his phone.
Afterward, he collapsed onto the couch beside me, hair still damp and sticking up in defiance of gravity.
The TV flickered, throwing color across the walls.
He talked nonstop, about the park, about the bike trick he almost landed, about a kid who definitely cheated at Tag, hands slicing the air for emphasis.
Crumbs scattered across the floor as collateral damage.
I hoped these moments stuck. That they outweighed the nights I wasn’t here.
When the last bite of dinner disappeared, he stifled a yawn and pretended he hadn’t. His eyelids gave him away. After brushing his teeth, he emerged with a minty grin and a towel slung over one shoulder like he was older than he was.
In his room, posters of superheroes and space missions covered the walls: half aspiration, half armor.
“Story?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
He hesitated, then shrugged. “Yeah. I mean. If you want.”
I pulled back the covers, and he climbed in. He grabbed the stuffed wolf without looking at it, like it had always been there and always would be. When I sat beside him, he angled closer, pretending it was about comfort and not proximity.
I spun a story about adventurers in a forest that shifted when you weren’t looking, about maps that lied and courage that showed up late but counted anyway. Mateo listened quietly, eyes following shadows on the ceiling, fingers absently rubbing the wolf’s ear.
His breathing slowed before the story ended. By the time I finished, his mouth had fallen open just slightly.
I stayed a moment longer, smoothing his hair, memorizing the weight of him like this: still my kid, still trusting me to come back.
The routine dulled the edge of my guilt, but not the nerves waiting underneath. As I slipped out into the night, anticipation curled tight in my chest, curiosity braided with dread, all of it pulling me toward the bar and the man I couldn’t stop thinking about.
Arriving at Neon, a low hum filled the air, punctuated by laughter and the familiar strains of upbeat music. Rita was behind the bar, prepping for the rush, while I prepared mentally for my shift.
As I scanned the room, my heart stuttered. There he was. Aiden. His presence stirred a mix of dread and thrill within me. He sauntered to a booth, followed by his sun-bleached-haired friend. I hesitated, then forced myself to move.
Aiden wore dark navy blue jeans and a slate-gray Henley, unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a faded scar. The outfit clung to his frame without trying too hard, the fabric stretched tight over muscles built like a predator in motion.
His dark hair fell carelessly to one side, and his amber eyes seemed to hold secrets only meant for me. There was an undercurrent of ruggedness to him tonight, complemented by the stubble tracing his jaw. His whole look said: I don’t start fights, but I never walk away from one either.
His presence commanded attention effortlessly. I tried to convince myself I was ready for this yet seeing him still took my breath away. I clutched a tray, pretending to be absorbed in the tasks around me. I wavered, trying to steel myself against the truth that he was impossible to ignore.
Every time I worked up the will to approach Aiden’s table, my steps slowed, my pulse thickened, and some deeply rooted instinct rose to stall me.
My tray jostled with empty glasses. My apron was smudged with lime juice and bitters. I busied myself behind the bar, but I couldn’t avoid him forever. I squared my shoulders and strode there.
Aiden looked up, and the smile that crossed his face was so unguarded it undid me a little. “Hey, Josie.”
“Evening,” I replied, letting the familiar cadence of waitress banter carry me forward. “What can I get you tonight?”
Aiden’s eyes flickered over my face. “Whiskey neat,” he said, leaning back in the booth. The blond friend smirked and then elbowed Aiden.
“Hi, I’m Cody,” he interjected. “Aiden’s best friend.” His grin stretched wide as he leaned over the table. “It’s very nice to meet you, Josie.” The familiarity in his voice set my nerves tingling.
Aiden watched me, waiting for a response. His presence was steady and grounded, in contrast to Cody’s playful demeanor.
I nodded in stiff acknowledgment. “Uh, hi.” My voice was barely audible, and I hated how unsure it sounded.
Cody beamed back at me as if I’d given him a gold star.
He then raised his hand, “Can you make it two, but with rocks? And can we get a round of those, what do you call them, disco fries?”
“Coming right up,” I promised, jotting down the order with my uninjured hand.
Aiden stared at me, his eyes probing for clues as he took in my bandaged hand. A crease formed between his brows as he leaned forward.
“What happened there?” he asked, concern evident in his tone.
His eyes… Had they just shifted color? They were light brown a second ago, now a brighter gold color. I blinked, trying to convince myself it was nothing more than my overactive imagination.
“Nothing, just me being clumsy,” I said, shrugging off his concern with a practiced deflection.