Page 132 of Dirty Game
At night, he cries. Not loud, just a slow leak of sound, the kind that rips your guts out because you know he’s trying so hard not to be noticed.
The only time he lets himself be held is when Rosalynn is in the room.
He’ll creep over, wedge himself between her and the couch, then burrow under her arm.
She never reacts, just flips the page and keeps reading.
Sometimes she puts her hand on his head, just for a second.
He sits on the floor, knees hugged to his chest, and stares at the door.
I stand in the hall, watching. I want to go in, but I don’t. I’m afraid I’ll fuck it up.
I waited for this for years but have no idea how to be a dad.
On the third night, Rosalynn tucks a blanket around Dante’s shoulders. She sits cross-legged beside him, lights off except for the lamp shaped like a rocket.
“Want to hear a story?” she asks.
He doesn’t answer.
She opens a book anyway. Her voice is rough, but steady.
She reads about stars, about ships lost in space, about monsters you can trick if you know the right words.
When the story ends, she sets the book aside. “My mother used to read that to me,” she says. “When I was scared.”
Dante glances at her, just once.
“I was scared a lot,” she says. “It’s okay, you know. To be scared. Sometimes people who should love us don’t know how. That’s not our fault.”
He looks down at his hands, small and clenched.
“I’m not leaving,” she says with soft confidence. “No matter what.”
Dante’s mouth works, searching for a word. He finds nothing.
Rosalynn sits with him in silence, letting the darkness settle.
He falls asleep against her shoulder, breath shallow but even.
I watch from the hall, not daring to move.
On the fourth day, Dante finds a box of colored pencils on his bed. He takes them, crawls under the sheets, and draws.
At lunch, he sits at the table and eats three bites of sandwich.
Rosalynn cuts the crusts off, slides the plate in front of him, and pretends not to notice when he stares at her for a long, long time.
Afterwards, she sets up a fort in the living room, blankets draped over chairs and the edge of the couch.
Dante helps, taping the corners together with as much precision as a child could muster.
When it’s finished, they crawl inside and stare at the ceiling, silent.
I pace the hall, unable to join them.
Inside the fort, Rosalynn says, “I had a sister once. Her name was Cora.”
