Page 13 of False Start
“And your son is sick,” he shot back, his voice violent already where mine was level and calm.
“Can you handle it?”
“He threw up everywhere — like, projectile vomited all over his bed. I don’t have any spare sheets and I don’t even know where tobegincleaning up this goddamn mess.”
That was a no, I guessed.
I wanted to tell him to calm down, but I’d learned long ago that wasn’t the approach to take with Marshall.
“I’ll be there soon,” I said instead, hoping the calm in my voice would transfer to him.
In reality, I knew he’d be happy just because he still had power over me.
One call, and I was doing what he wanted.
My stomach was in knots as I made my way back to the table, my feet moving slower than I wanted them to. I needed to rush, to get to my baby boy and take care of him.
But going to him also meant going to Marshall.
I did my best to stay away from him as much as I could. Other than dropping Sebastian off or picking him up, I didn’t have to see my ex.
But with this, I’d have to go into that house I once lived in with him. I’d have to be within the walls, behind closed doors, alone with him — other than our child.
Nothing put me on edge quite like that did.
Marshall was careful. He always had been. He never outright hit me when we were together, and since our divorce, he found clever ways to bruise me without any physical marks being left on my skin.
Still, he was unpredictable.
“I’m sorry, I have a family emergency,” I said to Kyle when I made it back to the table, pulling cash from my purse.
Kyle immediately stood, dropping his napkin on his chair. “What happened? Is it your mom?”
My chest squeezed violently.
“No.”
Kyle frowned. “Your brother?”
“No,” I gritted, and when I tried to put cash on the table, Kyle stopped me, his hand lightly finding my wrist.
The soft touch made a lump form in my throat.
Slowly, he slid his hand down to mine, folding my fingers around the cash and guiding it back toward my purse.
“Who, then? Your dad?”
God, why did he have to ask, why did he have to pretend to care?
“Sebastian,” I said on a swallow, breaking contact with his hand. “Let me pay for dinner.”
“Not happening.” His eyes were still hard on me when he asked, “Who is Sebastian?”
I met his gaze. “My son.”
It felt like all the air in the restaurant was sucked out with those words, and I kept his stare even long after it burned me.
“Son,” he repeated. “You... you’re a mom?”
