Page 15 of When I Had You

I’m here now to change my legacy and to make my son proud of me. My chest tightens, knowing I won’t get to see him for a few more weeks.

I travel up to my room and sit on the edge of the mattress. I don’t care about the lights of Miami shining outside my windows. I miss my kid, so I send a hopeful text:

Can I call him?

I don’t have time to take a breath before his mother replies:

Cullen’s sleeping.

It’s after ten, so I’m not surprised, but my day doesn’t consist of a nine-to-five we can rely on. Since Terpidy didn’t answer earlier when I called before dinner, that’s three days in a row I haven’t gotten to hear my son’s voice. It puts me on edge when it’s been too long.

I’m known for a short fuse. The internet is full of my tantrums. My temper was part of the reason I lost my seat on the track last time. I can’t risk everything for a momentary lapse. Not again.

I strip down and get ready for bed, but I still haven’t heard from her.

Breathe.

I type:

I can call at ten in the morning. I’d appreciate if he’s available.

There’s a long pause that has my hope she’ll come through for me fading. I need to hear his voice and laughter and make sure he knows how much I love him. I add:

I miss him, Terpidy.

A text pops up:

Eight a.m. sharp. We have a playdate at the park at nine.

I try to be considerate of Terpidy, as my son's mother, but it’s never been an easy relationship. And although this isn’t a negotiation since we share custody equally, I respect the plans they’ve made, especially when it comes to Cullen’s schedule and his life.

I send one more text before calling it a night:

I’ll call him at eight a.m. sharp. Have a good night.

Though I try to be cordial, she doesn’t make the same effort. That’s standard, considering the relationship with Terpidy Byrne is the worst collision I’ve ever been in.

But those darkest days gave me light. My son.

I set my alarm for the morning so I don’t miss this chance, and then I fall into bed.

I’m dead to the world in no time . . . until my phone wakes me at one thirty-nine in the morning. I jump from bed and scramble to find my phone on the nightstand. With fear of the worst happening to those I care about most, I press the phone to my ear. “What? Hello?”

“Cash?”

It’s not the voice I expected.

It’s not my son or my mom. It’s not Terpidy.

Pulling the phone back, I check the screen to see if it’s a number I recognize. It’s not, and it’s not from my personal black book of contacts I keep. As my mind muddles from sleep to reality, causing me to grip the phone tighter in my hand, I give up and ask, “Who is this?”

“It’s Marina . . . Marina Westcott. I need you.”

5

Cash

Should I have asked a few questions?

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