11. Talia #2
Flynn is not bad. He’s six. There is a difference, even if the distinction gets thinner when I’m exhausted and emotionally compromised.
He argues about the green beans, forgets three times that airplanes do not belong beside his plate, and nearly knocks over his cup while demonstrating how a plane lands in “medium wind.”
Normally, I would laugh. Tonight, I snap.
“Flynn, enough with the plane at the table.”
His face changes immediately. Not dramatically. Not enough to turn into tears. Just enough that shame flashes across his features before he looks down at his plate.
The guilt is instant.
I set my fork down. “Hey.”
He doesn’t look up.
I soften my voice. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped.”
“You said enough.”
“I did.”
“Enough means stop.”
“It does.” I reach across the table and touch his hand. “But I said it too sharply, and that part was my fault.”
He thinks about that for a moment, then nods with all the solemn generosity of a child deciding whether an adult deserves forgiveness.
“Can the plane sit over there?”
I follow his gaze to the counter.
“Yes. The plane can sit over there.”
He carries it carefully across the kitchen, and I sit there watching him with my chest aching in a way I don’t want to name.
This is what unsettles me most. Not that Flynn knows about Declan. Not that Declan wants a place in his life. Not even that I slept with Declan after promising myself I would keep boundaries clear and steady.
It’s this.
The way my own fear follows me home and becomes impatience at the dinner table. The way I tell myself I’m protecting Flynn while letting my emotions leak into the one place he should never have to manage them.
Bedtime doesn’t improve much.
Flynn wants an extra story. Then water. Then the blue plane, which apparently cannot sleep unless it’s on the nightstand facing the correct direction.
I find myself moving through each step with a smile that feels a little too tight, and by the time I tuck the blanket around him, he’s watching me with those serious brown eyes that have never once belonged to me.
“Are you mad?” he asks.
My heart drops.
“No, sweetheart.”
“At me?”
“No.” I sit on the edge of his bed and brush his hair off his forehead. The cowlick immediately springs back into place, defiant as ever. “Not at you.”
He studies me for a few seconds, then reaches up and touches the space between my eyebrows.
“You have the line.”
“What line?”
“The thinking line.”
I almost laugh, but it catches in my throat. “I do?”
“Uh-huh. It means your brain is busy.”
“My brain is very busy.”
“Tell it to be quiet.”
“I’ll try.”
He considers this acceptable and rolls onto his side, one hand tucked beneath his cheek.
“Can the man with the watch see my runway someday?”
The question is soft, sleepy, and devastating. I sit perfectly still.
Flynn’s eyes are already closing, his body giving in to the day faster than his curiosity can keep up. He doesn’t know what he’s asked. Not really. To him, Declan is still only the man with the nice watch who returned a toy plane and looked sad in a café.
To me, he’s every door I’m afraid to open.
“Maybe someday,” I say, because I can’t bring myself to say no.
Flynn hums sleepily. “Okay.”
I stay beside him until his breathing evens out.
Only then do I leave his room, pulling the door almost closed behind me.
The place is quiet when I return to the kitchen.
The table still needs clearing. My laptop bag sits by the door.
My phone waits on the counter, face down, as if pretending not to exist.
For a long time, I don’t touch it. I clean instead. Plates into the sink. Green beans into a container Flynn will absolutely not eat tomorrow. Crayons back into the plastic bin. Paper airplanes moved carefully to the side because, despite everything, I’m not a monster.
Only when there is nothing left to straighten do I pick up my phone. One message waits. Declan. I stare at his name before opening it.
I hope you and Flynn had a good evening. Sleep well, Talia.
That’s all. No pressure. No question. No reminder of last night. No demand for a response. Just kindness, which is quickly becoming the most dangerous thing about him.
I read the message once, then again. My thumb hovers over the screen, and for one foolish moment I let myself imagine answering honestly.
We made it home. Flynn built a runway. He asked if you could see it someday. I almost said yes.
The words sit in my head, warm and impossible. Then I think about the way I snapped at Flynn over a toy plane. I think about how quickly last night followed me into today, how easily Declan has begun living in corners of my life where I never gave him permission to stay.
I tell myself silence is safer. I tell myself this is for Flynn. But the lie doesn’t hold the way it used to.
Because Flynn wasn’t the one I was protecting when I pulled away this morning. He wasn’t the one who needed Declan kept at a distance during the drive home or in the meeting or in every quiet second when I felt myself wanting to turn toward him.
That was me. I wasn’t punishing Declan for being a risk to Flynn. I was punishing him for becoming a risk to me.
The realization leaves me standing in the middle of my kitchen with my phone in my hand and my heart beating too hard over a message that asks for nothing.
I type: Good night.
Two words. Simple and safe.
I stare at them until they blur. Then I delete them before I can change my mind.