Page 2 of Stolen Dreams

Brianna tries to push past me, but I hold my ground.

“Asshole.” The insult echoes loudly off the walls before she pivots and storms out of the room.

Dropping my arms, I inhale a slow, deep, steadying breath.

I can’t do this anymore.

I glance over my shoulder at my sweet, jovial, innocent son.

He shouldn’t have to live like this either.

Exiting the bedroom, I ease the door shut but leave it open a few inches. As I enter the living room, my gaze drifts to Brianna as she upends the sofa cushions and digs between the cracks. Frenetic energy floats throughout the apartment as she knocks over pictures and keepsakes without care.

“We should move to Stone Bay.”

My words make her freeze. Straightening her spine, she peers over her shoulder, a scowl carved into her features. “So that’s how it is?”

Narrowing my eyes slightly, I tilt my head, confused. “How what is, Bri?”

“Life gets shitty, so you run back to Mommy and Daddy.”

I fight the urge to act as childish as she is, knowing it won’t better the situation. “Who said anything about running?” Inching closer to her, I reach for her arm. Extend a proverbial olive branch. “We need help, Bri. And my family would love to be there for us and Tucker.”

She scoffs and shakes her head. “Of course.” Disdain coats her tone.

And just like that, I’m over being the nice guy. Done bending over backward for this woman who seems to give no fucks about me or our son. “Of course, what?” I ask, my tone and volume matching hers.

The corner of her mouth twitches. A twinkle dances in her eyes. As if me going toe to toe with her brings her some perverse sense of joy. Before I have time to explore why, a deadpan expression replaces her scorn.

“What aboutmyfamily, Ray?” She stabs the center of her chest with a finger. “Do they not count?”

“That’s not what I said. Don’t put words in my mouth.”

Turning her back on me, she goes back to searching for her keys.

“You don’t talk about your family much, Bri. And the little you have shared…” I drag a hand through my hair. “You haven’t painted a pretty picture.”

Eyes downcast, she shoulder-checks me as she passes and enters the open kitchen. “They weren’t the best parents, but they’re still my family.”

Now she is throwing bullshit to see what will stick. Fine. If that is how she wants to play, I can throw it right back.

“Really?”

She pauses and peeks over her shoulder, eyes narrowed, but doesn’t say a word.

“We’ve been together how long?” Before I give her a chance to answer, I continue. “Not once have we or you spent time with them. Not once have you texted or spoken with them on the phone.” As each word leaves my lips, the irritation flowing through my veins builds, expands, becomes borderline explosive. “Do they even know about Tucker?”

Whipping around, she stomps across the room and shoves at my chest. “Fuck you.”

Am I the asshole for that last jab? Yeah, I am. My parents would reprimand me for saying such a callous thing to the mother of my child. Regardless, the question needs to be asked.

Brianna and I need help raising Tucker. Period.

It isn’t about money. If finances were an issue, I’d ask my parents for a loan. They’d happily lend me whatever we needed and wave me off every time I tried to pay it back.

What we need is someone willing to help with day care. Sure, Tucker could go to a place nearby and develop social skills early. He could play with other kids around his age and start preschool learning before most children. The list of perks is extensive.

But the bill for childcare would eat up most of one of our salaries. One or both of us would have to shift our schedules toaccommodate the day care’s business hours. We’d have to work extra hours to foot the bill and still have enough to live after.

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