Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 162947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 543(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 543(@300wpm)
But I say nothing.
Mainly because I don’t know what to say.
I feel nothing.
Which is a lie. A lie I’m forced out of as his strong arms fold around me, pressing me against the solid, realness of him.
It feels . . . better than it ought to. Better than it should, this embrace.
“Of all the coffee joints in all the towns.” I feel the curve of his smile against my cheek before he pushes me from him, only to immediately bring me close again. Frozen or not, my feet lift from the ground, my brain almost ceasing to function, his scent curling around me like an assault of sensory memory. But I don’t feel joy or surprise, only regret.
Because this isn’t Casablanca but Podunk Mookatill.
Because Rick and Ilsa we are not—we aren’t star-crossed lovers who’ll always have Paris.
But I’ll always have Wilder, my mind amends. Unless—
My heart pinches, and panic floods my veins.
Unless he takes him away from me.
I push away from his realness, denial making me shake my head. Maybe he won’t realise. Maybe I won’t say.
“Jesus, Kennedy. I can’t tell you—it is so good to see you.” His eyes travel over me, and I wonder what he’s seeing. He’s just as I’ve remembered him, only somehow more. “I’ve wanted.” He swallows as though overcome. “I never thought—”
But then his smile fades as a small hand slips into mine. It’s not an expression I allow myself to study or a reaction I direct one ounce of my attention to as I fold my fingers over Wilder’s, looking down into his upturned face.
My son was born a middle-aged man. At least, that’s what I’ve always joked. But the fact is, even as a tiny baby, he seemed so watchful. Perceptive. You know those stories you hear about toddlers reciting facts from past lives? The whole “when I was here before” schtick? I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear a three-year-old Wilder tell us about that time he was a goat herder on some mountainside in Macedonia.
He didn’t, thankfully.
But for a child—a boy child, no less—he’s sensitive and uncannily astute. And it might be weird to say, but I trust his instincts. He prefers to think first before acting, and I’m grateful for this more than ever. Even though I know behind those pinch-worthy, freckle-dappled cheeks, he’s formulating a library of questions.
“Momma, who’s that man?”
“Just someone who’s confused me with someone else.” Technically, I’m not lying. I’m no longer the person Roman thinks I am. As for who Roman is, he’s a short story, a night of madness with a complicated ending. A story I thought I could keep to myself for a little longer yet. An explanation not meant to be given in front of an audience.
“Like a case of mistaken identity?” my son asks, ever the inquisitor.
“Exactly.” I look up and chance a look Roman’s way, immediately wishing I hadn’t. Without his smile, the angles of his face make him look suddenly severe. “It’s almost time to go home.” I force the corners of my mouth to curl, but I’m conscious that Wilder sees through my expression anyway. “Why don’t you go on upstairs and get Moose.”
My son’s fingers tighten, his attention flitting to the table where his books and crayons lie. “But I haven’t—”
“I’ll pack up for you. Don’t forget her harness.”
I let go of his hand, but the kid doesn’t budge, his attention instead turning to Roman. Blue gaze meets blue gaze, each looking into a mirror at a reflection some twenty or so years away. I suddenly and inexplicably long for the means to preserve this moment for them. Like meeting like, father meeting son, in this most private of moments. Until it isn’t so private anymore as, like some public paternity reveal, both father and son tilt their dark heads to the right in an identical study of the other.
3
Roman
A BOY LOVES HIS WOODY
Have I gone deaf, or has the place fallen deathly quiet?
Watchful blue eyes hold mine as we silently contemplate each other, and something my older brother said comes floating back to me. Flynn had described how, holding his newborn son in his arms for the first time, he’d felt a rush of sensation—a wave of wonder shortly followed by another of terror. He’d said the surge of love he’d felt for that minute-old soul had hit him with the force of a tsunami and that with it had come the weight of the world. I’m not sure why the memory comes to me now. I only know it suddenly feels very relatable.
A moment later, I’m yanked from my trance as the dark-haired kid who is my nephew’s absolute doppelgänger breaks our gazes as he turns. I am absolutely transfixed as he weaves around the counter, his fingers trailing through the beaded curtain and making it rattle. As he disappears out of sight, I have to clench my jaw to keep from calling out after him.