“Out,” she growls.
Picking up the bottle of tequila, as I’m sure she’ll appreciate the liquid sweater when she realizes just how cold it is, I head for the door with Leigh hot on my heels. She grabs her hoodie from the hook and silently slides into the chair on the opposite side of the firepit.
The fire dances between us, its crackle the only sound before Leigh heaves a great sigh, losing some of her fight. “We can’t argue like that in front of Zach.”
“Agreed.” I nod.
“He doesn’t like it when people yell.”
Immediately, I’m on the defensive. “Did something happen?”
Who do I need to kill?
Leigh rolls her eyes. “No, he’s almost two. He’s afraid of his own shadow. Yelling just scares him.”
My brow furrows as I recall our conversation the day before and how old she said Zach was. “Almost two? I thought he was two.”
Leigh stands up and rounds the firepit, grabbing the bottle of tequila from the table beside me. She takes another long pull and heads back to her chair, bottle in hand. “His birthday is January 1st. It’s just easier to say two since we’re so close.”
Yet another thing I didn’t know about him.
Is this how it’s always going to feel? Like I’m late to the game, trying to figure out the rules and regulations while having one hand tied behind my back. My fists clench in my lap, and the anger that has ebbed and flowed since I learned about Zach rears its ugly head.
“Anything else I should know about my son?”
“No.” Leigh doesn’t hesitate. Which only serves to annoy me further.
“Is it terrible I find that hard to believe?” I seethe, teetering between wanting to fight with her and pleading for her to understand where I’m coming from.
Her eyes glitter through the fire. Fierce. Steeled. Resolved. “I’m only doing what’s best for Zach.”
“And that’s shutting me out?” I snap, my voice dancing a line of irate and desperate.
“For now? Maybe.”
“What the hell does that mean?” My nostrils flare as my grasp on the conversation slips further and further away from me.
This isn’t how this is supposed to go. I knew we’d have our issues. I knew I’d have to grovel a bit to fix what I broke all those years ago. But I never expected she'd admit point-blank to wanting to keep me from my son.
And yet I understand it.
I hate it.
But I understand it.
She doesn’t know me. Not anymore. Not that she really did. She only ever saw what my mother wanted her to see. Because that’s how it was growing up a Donati.
“Fuck,” I curse under my breath as I run my hand through my hair, my gaze lost in the fire.
“You’re not the only guy I slept with that week.” Her words are little more than a shy whisper, but they carry the weight of a sledgehammer, garnering my full attention.
Time stops as I work out what she’s implying.
That means?—
I might not be?—
But his eyes.
