Page 25 of A Very Bumpy Christmas
The question sits heavy. I could punt, cite the op. I could say I don’t know. I do know one thing with clarity that scares me more than any alley. “Not that,” I say. “Not weekends. Not ‘you can meet your kid in a calendar invitation.’”
He nods. “Then don’t accept that.”
“She set a boundary.”
“So set one of your own,” he says. “Show up. Not loud. Not forcing it. Just… persist. Earn it. Be there when it counts.”
I stare at the boardwalk lights until they blur. The anger is still there, a hard knot, but it’s changing its shape—less flammable, more useful. Under it, something steadier: the picture I didn’t know I was building in my head—a crib anchored to a wall that doesn’t squeak because I fixed it; a birthing class where I’m the guy holding the terrible plastic doll like it matters; a Tuesday afternoon where I’m timing contractions with the same focus I use on a stakeout; a kid in my lap on a porch learning that flame is hot and love is not something you show up to on alternate Saturdays.
“I asked the wrong way,” I say, and the admission tastes like iron and relief. “In the store. I boxed her in.”
“Then unbox it,” Duke says. “You’re allowed to be pissed. You’re not allowed to be done.”
Gunner: “And for what it’s worth, ‘complicated’ is just the word men use before they’re ready.”
“Thank you, Dr. Phil,” I mutter, and catch myself almost smiling.
Our client’s car pulls up to the south gate. We work—clean, quiet, precise. Hands know what to do. Eyes do their jobs. The job is good for me. It files the edges down without sanding away the truth.
When the handoff is done and the marina returns to sleepy, I lean back in the seat and stare at my hands on the wheel. They didn’t shake tonight. They will later.
I text Melanie:
Home? Hydrated?
A minute. Two.
Yes. Thank you
No period. She always forgets the period when she’s typing fast.
I type and delete three times. I land on:
I’ll be at the next appointment if you’ll have me.
The dots appear. Disappear. Appear.
Okay. I'll text you details
Copy. Sleep.
I add a water emoji because I’m an idiot and because it makes her send back a laugh emoji that feels like a handhold.
Duke tips his head against the window, eyes closed like a man catching a ten-minute power charge. “You going to be okay?” he asks without looking.
“No,” I say. Then, quieter: “Yeah.”
He cracks one eye. “Pick one.”
“I’ll make it okay,” I correct, which is the only answer that ever got me anywhere.
Snow starts again, soft and uncommitted. This weather isn’t typical for Saint Pierce. I watch it collect on the corner of the windshield and think about a white crib in a sunlit room and a woman with long brown hair and eyes the color of a roasted chestnut.
I don’t know how to do this. There isn’t a manual.
But I have the tools. I can read a room. I can hold a line. I can learn.
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