Page 32 of Not How I Saw That Going

Poor naïve soul.

“Don’t underestimate his ability to destroy anything just because he’s little,” I say.

The chief smiles, the edges of his handlebar mustache rising. “The beauty of potential.”

From our first conversation, I could tell he was an optimistic kind of guy. I hope he stays that way if Crew does in fact break a truck.

“I’m heading out,” the chief says. “There are a few guys in the back office, though, so don’t worry about shutting off the lights.”

“Okay, thank you.” I almost addsir. He’s not technically my boss, right? It’s not like I’m getting paid here.

“Goodnight, little buddy.” He gives Crew a fist bump this time, and I smile at the interaction. Crew has never had a male influence in his life, so I appreciate whatever he gets.

After the chief leaves, I bring Crew into the locker room with me, telling him to count the lockers. He makes it to fifteen four times before he starts bouncing back and forth against the wall of lockers and vaulting over the middle bench like he’s the pinball in a machine.

The last one apparently comes out of nowhere, and he ricochets off it and crashes to the ground.

“Spidey died,” he groans from the cement floor. But nothing can keep Spidey down long and he’s right back at it.

Is this my fault? I did eat store-bought sushi a few times while pregnant.

“Spidey to the rescue!”

I drop my rag to the concrete. I can’t take the noise anymore. I grab his hand and lead him to the bench between the lockers.

“Here.” I hand him my phone, all ready to go with his favorite Spider-Man show. Thank goodness I’d thought of downloading a few episodes. He takes it and settles in with the screen barely two inches from his face.

I return to my bucket and allow myself the luxury of zoning out to the children’s voices on the screen. I don’t even mind scrubbing the toilets and urinals so long as I can do it in peace.

The sound of whatever Crew is watching drifts to the back of my mind, and I’m left alone with my thoughts.

I wish I had more male influences for Crew. He’s asked me a few times why he doesn’t have a dad, and each time I freeze, not sure how to answer. I know what it was like to grow up without a dad, and I never wanted that for Crew, but it’s for the best this way.

It hurts that I only have scattered memories of my dad. I have a few photos left, but they are old and faded. The memories are even more blurry. My mom claimed the rest of the photos got lost in a move I don’t recall. That excuse might have worked years ago, but I know we had something.

He had existed. Though somehow, she managed to erase him from our life like he never did.

Some days, I worry that I completely made him up. That I never really had a dad, just some good memories from a TV show I must have watched. Whenever I asked my mom about him, she said she was too heartbroken to speak about him, yet she had no problem moving on when my stepdad came along.

It took me months to get over Rodney, and he wasn’t worth holding onto. I should have given him up sooner, but I held on like he was my life raft. Because I thought he was. I believed every stupid lie he told me when he claimed he was the only man who would ever love me, the only one who could.

I think my father loved me. But there’s no guarantee my memory serves me right on that account.

Surely there’s someone out there, even for me. As much as I fear admitting it out loud, I do want a happily ever after. Doesn’t everyone?

I sigh, grabbing the bucket of cleaning supplies and walking out of the last stall.

“Mommy, smile,” Crew says, aiming the phone in my direction.

I turn toward my little boy and grin. “Cheese.” I strike a few exaggerated poses on my way toward the door. I might not be the best mom, but I plan to show him that even though we don’t have much, we have each other, and that’s all we’ll ever need. Maybe I’m being hopelessly optimistic. But someone’s gotta be.

“You’re funny, Mommy.” He laughs, clicking what I’m sure is the fiftieth picture.

I dance and strike pose after pose, my smile growing as his laugh escalates. I make one final silly face, then turn—right into a wall that wasn’t there before.

My bucket clatters to the ground and I tip backward, but Ward catches me with one arm, wrapping me into his chest. Hisbarechest. My brain doesn’t have time to process what I’m pinned against, and dang it, I needmoretime. Because he’s solid and ridged like the Rocky Mountains.

“Whoa, sorry,” he says.