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I wait for her to look at me. “What?” she snaps, but then adjusts her tone. “We’re late. We’re supposed to be at The Point already.”
I promised Taliyah a concert for her fifth birthday. She didn’t want a party with friends. No, not my little music obsessed little girl. She wanted a concert with me singing about as badly as she wanted that Fender guitar we were giving her tonight. I could do all of that, but looking at my wife now, I couldn’t help but feel like I’d ruined the day already.
“Don’t be mad,” I whisper, shifting Stevie to my other hip so I can kiss Evie’s temple.
She nods, as though she’s working through it. “Jameson is still outside.” I turn to look in the backyard where Jameson isswinging a bat around in circles. The last time he did that he knocked himself out. “Can you get him? Taliyah is already in the car waiting.”
I watch Evie’s face, her eyes, the pale expression and reminder of the bat. Told you trauma doesn’t just go away. It stays. Forever. Some days it doesn’t hurt as bad, but others, it’s a slap to your face. And I made it worse. “You take the girls.” I hand a wiggly Stevie back to her. “I’ll get him and I’ll meet you there.”
Her eyes hold mine. “Don’t be a minute late. This means a lot to her.”
“I won’t.” I motion to the backyard. “I’m going to get him now. I’ll be right behind you.”
She leaves with the girls and I head out back to get Jameson. He puts up a fight but I carry him inside by his ankles, his laughter filling the silent house. I set him on the counter, reaching for a wet rag in the sink to wipe the dirt off his face. It’s useless. Ten minutes in the field tonight he’s going to be caked in dirt and more than likely, half naked.
He kicks his legs and I scoot back before he nails me in the balls again, his hands on my wrists. “Stop it. I’m clean, Daddy.”
“You’re not clean, little man. You’re covered in dirt. Look at you.” I gesture to his white t-shirt that’s has a thick layer of brown flakes on it.
He smiles, sparkling green eyes that match his mama stare back at me. He just turned four and is a mirror of Evie. Facial expressions, attitude, all of it. He tolerates me, but his mother, she hung the moon and stars in his eyes. “I gotta go,” he tells me, trying to get down.
“Where ya goin’?”
I set him down on the floor and he yanks on his shirt and reaches for his cowboy hat he’d been wearing. “To find my mama.”
I grab him before he can take off again and get him into my truck. “It’s sissy’s birthday. Don’t you want to see her?”
He sighs, as if this is exhausting to him. “I see’d her before.”
Smiling, I buckle him up. “Well you get to see her tonight too.”
The fifteen-minute drive to The Point is spent with Jameson crying. The entire time. As soon as I pull into the parking lot, he stops. Instantly.
“Where’s Ethan? He here? Where is he?”
My son likes his uncle better than me. I manage to get him out and Taliyah’s guitar without her noticing a thing. She’s in the field with Frankie and Kelly, both tending to her every need and making her feel as special as she deserves.
Though Taliyah didn’t want your standard kid’s birthday party, looking at stage and the field in front of it, I’d say this is more extravagant. Everything is covered in pink and silver balloons, ribbons and twinkle lights. I know one thing. I’m dreading getting that credit card bill in the mail. I should have known not to give Frankie my card.
Speaking of Frankie, she’s standing next to me with a flannel in her hand. “Put this on.”
I stare at the flannel offensively. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
“It’s a t-shirt,” she deadpans.
“So?”
Jameson smacks his hand to the shirt. “Why he gotta wear it?”
Most of Jameson’s clothes are hand me downs from Wesley. He refuses to wear most of it and I can’t blame him. Frankie dresses her son like a douche. I’m sorry, Wesley’s not a douche, but his clothes, designer jeans at six and color coding his Converse shoes… no thanks. We’re lucky if Jameson’s pants are on and his shirt is clean. And forget shoes. He hates them. Which is why he’s barefoot right now.
I roll my eyes at the flannel still hanging in front of me. “I’m not wearing that.”
“Yes, you are. It’s your daughter’s day and this matches her dress.”
I rip the shirt from her hand. “Stop dressing me up.”
She eyes me up and down, like she’s offended by my presence here. “You need all the help you can get.”