Page 3 of Single Mom's Navy Seals
He nods seriously. “They were pirates.”
“Sounds dangerous.” I fight a smile, picking the chair back up. “Next time, maybe warn me before you start battling pirates in the living room?”
“Okay.” He hops up, oblivious to my panic, and rearranges the cushions with the casual efficiency of a professional pirate slayer.
I watch him for a moment, my heart aching softly again. He’s so good at entertaining himself, but he shouldn’t have to be. I hate Randy for taking this from him. I hate myself a little, too, even though I know I’m doing my best.
The familiar ache settles in my chest, and I glance back toward my studio, suddenly exhausted. I need fresh air and a break from the bitter memories. I ruffle Eli’s hair on my way past him.
“Mommy’s taking a break, okay? Stay inside. No more pirates until I get back.”
“Got it, Captain Mommy,” he chirps, already lost again in his world of make-believe.
In the kitchen, I pour myself a mug of instant coffee, grimacing at the watery brew. It’s disgusting, but coffee is coffee, and right now I need the caffeine more than the taste. Mug in hand, I step outside onto the porch, taking a deep breath of cool Vermont air.
I lean against the porch railing, inhaling the sweet, earthy scent of pine trees and morning mist. Vermont mornings are crisp, especially in late September, and I tug my oversized cardigan tighter around my shoulders. My breath puffs out in little clouds as I sip lukewarm coffee from my chipped mug. It’s not exactly Starbucks, but five years in witness protection have turned me into a woman with very realistic expectations. Instant coffee it is.
I glance around the small clearing surrounding our little cabin, nestled in the thick Vermont woods. It’s quiet out here, secluded enough that most people wouldn’t stumble across us by accident. Exactly what the Marshal Service wanted, and exactly what I needed. When Avalina died and became Ava, so did everything else from my past. Randy went to jail, and my father followed soon after. Morales told me two years ago that he’d been released. I remember feeling nothing other than a distant disappointment that he made it out on “good behavior.” There was nothing good about that bastard.
Taking another sip of my coffee, I sigh and take a seat on the porch. I don’t know why life feels heavier lately. Witness Protection had never been perfect, but over the last few months, since Eli turned five, it has been feeling a lot more isolated. Suddenly, I could see that my baby boy wasn’t quite a baby anymore. The guilt of having to keep him essentially locked up here like some half-Italian ‘Rapunzello’ or whatever feels crueler every day. My twenty-seventh birthday passed a month after Eli’s, and the feelings only got worse. That’s when I started thinking about how lonely I was, too. How badly I wished I could have the kind of love I read about in my raunchy romance books upstairs.
I scrub a hand over my face and put the coffee mug on the porch step next to me. I try to get control of my thoughts. Dwelling on what I don’t have only makes everything feel heavier. It’s better to think about what I do have.
Life here isn’t glamorous, not by a long shot, but it’s ours. There’s no threat of mafia business, no henchmen lurking at our front door. Just me, Eli, and Rocket, the scruffy stray tomcat who showed up one day and comes back whenever he pleases to visit. He’s not exactly our cat since he hated being inside the one time Eli convinced me to try to keep him as a house cat. Rocket, like me, has tasted freedom and will not be contained.
But he does show up occasionally for cans of tuna and a few head pats.
“Mommy, look!” I look over my shoulder in time to see Eli come flying out of the cabin’s front door, all sandy-brown hair and bright blue eyes.
He’s waving a piece of paper around like it’s the biggest news. He skids to a stop in front of me, grinning so wide, the gap from his missing tooth practically beams.
“I drew us,” he announces triumphantly, thrusting the artwork at me. “You, me, and Rocket!”
I kneel to get a better look, setting my mug aside. The drawing is surprisingly good for a five-year-old. I mean, I like to believe I have some talent myself, considering I’ve made a job of my art, so it’s nice to see my baby boy take after me.
I lean closer and give a soft chuckle. He’s drawn my hair as a massive cloud of brown scribbles. At least he’s honest. The natural curls I have are definitely giving “poof” these days.
“This is amazing, baby,” I tell him, wrapping him up in my arms and planting a kiss on his rosy cheek. “We should hang it on the wall.”
His eyes widen in excitement. “Next to the picture of us fishing?”
“That’s a great spot.” Also, one of our only free spots, considering our walls are covered with his art.
Eli beams again, then darts back inside without a word, probably on a mission to find tape. Watching the door swing closed behind him, I feel my heart swell. There’s something indescribably pure about Eli’s happiness that makes every sacrifice worth it. He’s free here. Safe. Protected.
The door bangs open again, and Eli reappears, a roll of tape now clenched in his tiny hand.
“Okay,” he pants, a bit breathless. “I got the tape.”
“You definitely do.” I ruffle his hair, earning myself a giggle and a mock pout.
Together, we head back inside. The cabin is cozy, with rough-hewn walls and mismatched furniture that I’ve collected from thrift stores over the years. It might not make it onto any interior design blogs, but I’m proud of it. Eli runs straight to the fishing picture and begins to position his latest creation.
“You need any help?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“Nope,” Eli insists, his little tongue sticking out in concentration as he rips tape off the roll with his teeth. “Got it.”
“Okay, independent man.” I chuckle, watching him fuss over getting it just right.
