Page 43 of Unrivaled

Checking my phone for the 384748th time in the last eight minutes, I decide it’s close enough to ten and stand. I move to the base of the slide and wait for him to come down, offering my hand for a high five when he pops to his feet.

“Mommy! Mommy! Watch me do it again!”

“Alright. Last time, though, okay? Then snacks.”

He runs to the stairs without answering, waiting for the two kids in front of him to go and move out of the way before taking his turn. Preschool has helped a lot with that. In the fall, he would’ve just barreled down on top of them unless I stood right next to him and made him wait.

Checking to make sure I’m watching, he lies down and slides down head first, arms out Superman style. When he gets to the bottom, he drags himself the rest of the way off and stands up, beaming. “Didja see? Didja see?”

“I did!” I can’t help grinning at his enthusiasm. “Good job. Just don’t do that on the big slide at school. You’ll end up with a facefull of bark. Let’s go get Grayson and then pick out what snacks we want.”

“Can I get a corndog? I want a corndog!”

“Sure, sweetie. You can have a corndog.”

“Yay!” He sprints for Grayson, bouncing up and down with his hands on Grayson’s legs, yelling, “I get a corndog!”

The soft affection and indulgent smile on Grayson’s face as he interacts with Ben fills me with warmth, intensifying my inconvenient attraction. I’ve never introduced a man to my son before. And while Grayson and I aren’t anything to each other, this is the way I’d want someone I was serious about to react to my son. Happy to see him. Wanting to spend time with him. Looking at him like he’s the greatest thing in the world.

The memory of the warmth of Grayson’s hand on my leg, the way he was with me that night years ago … the part of me that grew up wishing Disney fairy tales could come true wonders if maybe something like thatcouldhappen for Grayson and me.

But I’m not that naive. Not anymore.

Maybe I was once. Back when I found out I was pregnant and thought maybe something could happen between us. He’d asked for my number, after all. I hadn’t given it to him because I was fresh off my breakup with Carter and thought taking a break from guys was a smart move. Ha. How right I’d been. Too bad I didn’t decide that until after I got knocked up. Not that I regret a moment of Ben’s existence, but getting pregnant in your senior year of high school is certainly no picnic.

But that naive part of me died when Grayson denied ever meeting me. Or at least I thought it did … I guess it’s making a reappearance now. How inconvenient.

Clearing the clog out of my throat, I pull Ben’s shoes out of my bag, squatting down to help him get them on. He’s still distracted by Grayson, telling him all about how much fun he had playing and how excited he is for his corndog, so he repeatedly tries to put his right foot into his left shoe.

Grayson notices, and leans over to look at Ben’s feet. “Wrong foot, buddy. Your mom needs your other foot.”

I give him a quick smile of thanks, and our eyes catch and hold for a moment. It’s probably my imagination combined with my recent thoughts, but I could swear that the same warmth and affection he directed at Ben is now channeled toward me as he returns my smile.

That shouldn’t fill me with as much hope and happiness as it does. All the articles I read about co-parenting emphasized maintaining a businesslike relationship. Of course they were assuming divorced parents, but I figured given our animosity—or maybe justmyanimosity—that seemed like a good goal. But if he’s going to touch me and smile at me and generally be a good guy, I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to maintain my distance.

Once the first shoe is on, the second one goes faster, and I gather our coats and my bag, taking Ben by the hand to lead him out of the playground, Grayson trailing behind us.

Ben and I head to the place with the corndogs, while Grayson gestures he’s going to get something from a different stand. With a corndog for Ben, a large container of fries, and a chocolate milk on a tray, I choose a table that’s as out of the way as possible.

Tray in hand, Grayson looks around, his face lighting up when he spots us. My heart gives a funny thump in my chest. His smile warms me, but the reality of what we’re about to do has my anxiety ratcheting up to an all time high, and suddenly French fries sound like a terrible choice. I’m not sure my stomach can handle much of anything right now.

Oblivious, Ben climbs onto the chair next to mine and sits on his knees, chanting, “Corndog, corndog, corndog,” while I place it in front of him. He picks it up and takes a huge bite, grinning at Grayson around his mouthful as Grayson takes the seat across from Ben.

“Corndog. Nice,” Grayson says approvingly while gathering up some kind of wrap in his hands.

He glances at me, eyebrows raised. “Not hungry?”

Shaking my head, I rub my hands on my thighs. “Nah. Not really.”

The look he gives me is warm and full of understanding, and I don’t like the way it feels like we’re co-conspirators. With a firm internal voice, I remind myself that he’s just here because of Ben. Not me. I’m the barrier between them, the thing blocking Grayson from having access, the gatekeeper he has to appease in order to see his son.

Ben chatters to Grayson, asking a million questions, because that’s what he does, interrupting to tell stories about things he does at preschool—lately he’s been all about Mount Saint Helens, because they made clay volcanoes in class last week and his teacher told them about the eruption and how there was ash everywhere. According to Ben, he was there when Mount Saint Helens erupted, though he says interrupted. Must’ve been in a past life.

Grayson’s nodding and making sounds of awed wonder at appropriate intervals, hiding his smile at the talk of the “interruption.” It’s really sweet, but I’m dying inside, because I need to get this over with, but I also want Ben to finish eating first.

Grayson glances at me from time to time, and I do my best to give him reassuring smiles, but I think they probably come out looking more sick than anything. Once upon a time I could fake smile my way through almost anything. Since quitting cheerleading my senior year, I seem to have slowly lost that ability.

After he finishes his wrap, he lays his arm on the table, almost like he’s reaching across for me, and I remember the way he did that when we had burritos the other night. The way he gently wrapped his fingers around my wrist and moved my hand away from my face when I was overcome.

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