Page 45 of One Pucking Secret
“Come on,” I beckon softly, my voice barely a whisper as we tiptoe through the threshold. The living room feels vast and quiet, the shadows drawing long across the floor. I gesture toward the couch, the scrapbook fanned out like an open diary. “I want to show you this.”
Wyatt lowers himself beside me, his eyes flickering with curiosity and something more guarded. Carefully, he turns the pages, examining photographs of Jasper—the chubby cheeks of infancy, the toothy grins of toddlerhood, the look of fierce concentration as he built towers destined to topple.
“Here he is at three, obsessed with dinosaurs,” I say, tapping a photo where Jasper was caught mid-roar, plastic T-rex clutched in his hand. “And this was his first day of school.” My finger hovers over a snapshot of Jasper, backpack dwarfing his small frame.
“He’s got so much energy,” Wyatt observes, a catch in his voice betraying the walls he is trying to keep up.
“Like someone else I know,” I reply with a sidelong glance.
His eyes meet mine, a deep blue I’ve navigated too many times to count, now swirling with emotions kept at bay.
I point to another picture. “Here’s one from Jasper’s first soccer game,” I say, holding up the picture proudly. In it, Jasper stands on the field in his uniform, a determined expression on his face as he kicks the ball. “He was so excited to finally step onto the field.”
Wyatt’s gaze lingers on the image, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. “He’s a natural,” he comments, admiration evident in his tone. “Must take after his old man.”
I chuckle softly, a warmth spreading through me at the thought. “Yeah, in more ways than one,” I concede, turning to the next photo. “And here’s one from his school’s science fair last year. He was so proud of his project on space exploration.”
He leans in closer, studying the photo intently. “Looks like he’s got brains to go with that talent,” he remarks, a hint of pride coloring his words.
“He’s got the whole package,” I agree, feeling a swell of affection for my son. “And he’s lucky to have you cheering him on too.”
Wyatt’s expression softens, the walls around him crumbling just a fraction. “I’ll always be in his corner,” he says quietly, his gaze lingering on the photo of Jasper.
“Hey, since we already had morning plans, why don’t you stay the night?” I suggest, the offer hanging between us like a fragile truce. “You look pretty tired yourself.”
“Alright,” he concedes, a nod indicating his surrender to exhaustion rather than comfort in our shared space. “I’ll take the couch.”
I stand to fetch blankets from the hall closet. When I return, I hand them over.
“Thank you, Chloe,” is all he murmurs, his eyelids heavy as he sets up his makeshift bed on the couch.
“Goodnight, Wyatt,” I whisper back, retreating to my own solitude.
I fall onto my bed, the day’s exhaustion finally catching up to me. For a moment, I just let myself sink into the mattress, but my mind won’t shut off. One good day with Wyatt—it’s not enough to fix everything. I know that.
Trust doesn’t rebuild in an instant. It’s not just one smile or one shared moment thatmakes everything okay again. And yet, I can’t shake how much I want to believe things could actually be different.
Maybe it’ll take more time. More effort. Maybe we’ll find a way forward, or maybe we’ll keep circling back to the same place.
But tonight, for the first time in a long time, it feels like there’s a real chance.
Maybe that’s enough—for now.
Chapter 16
Wyatt
The couch’s springs groanas I shift, my body protesting the stiff fabric against my skin. Light creeps into the living room, casting a soft glow over the assortment of children’s books scattered on the floor. Jasper pads in, his small feet making almost no sound on the carpet. His hair sticks up in every direction, a change from the quiet order of Chloe’s place.
“Hey, buddy, what are you doing up?” My voice is barely above a whisper, rough with sleep.
He gives a sleepy shrug, rubbing at his eyes. “I can go back to my room if you want to sleep.”
“No, that’s okay.” I sit up, stretching my arms above my head until my joints pop. “I’m up too. Say, do you want to make breakfast with me?”
Jasper’s face brightens for a moment then he nods, a slow, deliberate movement. “Sure.”
We shuffle into the kitchen, a march of two half-awake souls navigating the early morningsilence. “Why don’t you show me where everything is?” I suggest, and he takes charge with the seriousness only a seven-year-old can muster.
