Page 7 of Teaching Tanner

“Why?” I asked. “I can easily pick him up, and…”

“I already said I’ll drop him off.” She had an inflexible tone to her voice that I knew only too well.

“Okay. When?”

I didn’t want her stealing any of my time with Nash, and wondered if that was her ploy.

“It’ll need to be early… sometime between two and two-thirty.” She wasn’t asking, she was telling, but I didn’t mind. It would give me some extra time with Nash, so I agreed, assuming she probably had someone going over to her place and didn’t want me interrupting them.

“Fine. I’ll bring him back on Monday evening.” She’d already reminded me about twenty times that school wasn’t starting until Tuesday, and we’d agreed it made sense for Nash to stay on with me for the extra day.

“No. I’ll pick him up,” she said.

“That doesn’t work for me, Sabrina. Katie’s gonna close the store for me on Monday so I can take Nash for a picnic, and then I’m going out once I’ve dropped him back at your place.”

“Are you seeing someone?” she asked, her voice a little harsher than usual… which was saying something.

“It’s none of your damn business what I’m doing.”

She prevaricated a little, but I wasn’t about to let her spoil my plans to have drinks with Dawson at his bar. She did her best to spoil everything else, so I stuck to my guns.

“Fine,” she said eventually, and hung up.

It felt weird, scoring points over her, but even now the victory feels hollow compared to what we’ve lost.

We used to be a family. I used to see my son whenever I wanted. He’s the only thing I don’t regret out of all those wasted years, but now I have to make an appointment just to say hello. Although, to be fair, I still see quite a lot of him. More than a lot of divorced dads, anyway. He stays with me every weekend, and sometimes during the week, too, if his mom feels like asking. Not that she asks. She tells. That’s fine with me, though. I love having Nash around. We have a great relationship, and he knows he can talk to me about anything. He’s been a little quieter than usual this weekend, but I guess I can understand that. He’s going back to school tomorrow. That’s enough to depress anyone. I asked him yesterday if he was okay and he said he was, so I have to believe him. On the bright side, the excitement of his new bedroom means he hasn’t once asked me to get him a dog. That makes a change. Over the course of the summer, he’s brought it up at least four or five times every weekend, and saying ‘no’ was getting boring… and a lot harder.

“Are we gonna eat these sandwiches or not?” I call out and he looks up, then comes running, splashing through the water. I watch as he climbs out, pulling the sandwiches from the bag, followed by the towel I stashed at the bottom, which I wrap around him, dragging him down beside me.

“Do you think Mom will be mad at me?” he says, unwrapping his sandwich and taking a huge bite.

“What for?”

“My clothes are soaked, Dad.”

“She’ll blame me for that, don’t worry.”

She blames me for everything else. And what’s more, I don’t care.

After we’ve eaten, Nash spends a little more time splashing around and exploring, but at just before six, I call him over.

“We’ve gotta go, buddy.” He looks disappointed, his shoulders dropping, and while I try not to feel triumphant about that, it’s hard not to rejoice at the thought that he’d rather spend time with me than return to his mother.

Call me petty, if you want. It’s close to the truth.

And deep down, I know it’s not personal. Nash isn’t taking sides. It’s just that his life with his mom is more rigid. It revolves around school, and homework, and fixed bedtimes. With me, he gets more freedom… and that’s no-one’s fault.

“Can we come back next weekend?” he asks.

“Sure. As long as the weather holds up.”

He nods his head and, without me even asking, helps to clear away our things into the backpack, and then takes my hand as we start the walk back to the store.

We don’t need to go inside. Nash has everything he needs to survive a few days here with me, so hardly ever brings anything with him, and I throw the backpack into the trunk, helping him into the rear passenger seat before I climb in behind the wheel.

“The seat’s getting wet,” he says and I smile at him in the rear-view mirror.

“Don’t worry. It’ll dry.”

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