Page 9 of Ghost's Revenge
"Alright," he says, and his voice is gentler than I've ever heard it. "Just for a few minutes. But if your mom says it's time to stop, we stop. Deal?"
"Deal!" Tyler practically vibrates with excitement, running toward the side yard where there's a small patch of grass between the shelter and the neighboring house.
I watch through the window as Derek follows him, slowly, like he's approaching a wild animal he doesn't want to spook. Everything about his body language screams restraint, control, like he's hyper-aware of his size and strength in relation to the small boy bouncing around him.
"That's sweet," Maria says from behind me, making me jump. I'd forgotten she was there, forgotten about the laundry, forgotten about everything except the surreal scene playing out in the yard.
"It's not sweet," I mutter, but I don't move away from the window. "It's... I don't know what it is."
"It's a man being kind to a little boy who needs a father figure."
"Tyler doesn't need a father figure." The words come out harsher than I intended, defensive and sharp. "He has me. I'm enough."
Maria's reflection appears in the window beside mine, her dark eyes sad and knowing. She's been at the shelter for six months, long enough to work through some of her own trauma, long enough to recognize the signs in others.
"Of course you're enough. But that doesn't mean Tyler doesn't miss having a man in his life. A good man."
"And what makes you think he's good?" I gesture toward the window where Derek is now kneeling in the grass, adjusting Tyler's grip on the baseball glove. "Just because he's being nice for five minutes doesn't mean—"
"Look at him," Maria interrupts gently. "Really look."
So I do. I watch as Derek positions himself about ten feet away from Tyler, close enough to make sure the ball reaches him but far enough that Tyler won't be intimidated by his size. I watch as he underhands the ball with just enough force that Tyler can catch it. I watch as Tyler misses the return throw by a mile, sending the ball rolling toward the street, and Derek jogs after it without complaint.
"See how he moves?" Maria continues. "Slow, predictable. No sudden movements. No raised voice when Tyler messes up. He knows what he's doing."
She's right, and I hate that she's right. Derek moves like someone who understands trauma, who recognizes the signs of a child who's learned to flinch at loud noises and quick movements. Every gesture is telegraphed, every word spoken clearly and calmly.
"Mom, look!" Tyler's voice pulls my attention back to the game. "I caught it!"
And he did. Derek lobbed the ball in a perfect arc, and Tyler managed to snag it in his glove, his whole face lighting up withpride. Without thinking, I smile and give him a thumbs up through the window.
"He's good with kids," Maria observes. "Natural."
I want to argue, want to point out all the reasons why this is a bad idea. But watching Tyler beam with accomplishment, watching him actually succeed, I can't find the words.
David never played catch with Tyler. Said he was too young, too uncoordinated, too much trouble. Even when Tyler got older and started asking, David would always have an excuse. Too tired from work, too busy with his buddies, too annoyed by Tyler's constant chatter.
But here's this man, this stranger who looks like he could bench press a car, patiently teaching my son to throw a baseball like it's the most important thing in the world.
"Time to come in, Tyler," I call out, surprising myself with the reluctance in my voice.
"Five more minutes?" Tyler calls back, but he's already heading toward the porch, his face flushed with exertion and happiness.
"Now, baby. Derek has other things to do."
Derek nods and hands Tyler the baseball. "Thanks for the game, kid. You've got a good arm."
Tyler practically glows under the praise. "Really?"
"Really. Keep practicing, and you'll be ready for Little League before you know it."
Little League. As if we'll be in one place long enough for Tyler to join a team. As if I have money for uniforms and equipment and all the things normal kids take for granted. But Derek says it like it's a given, like of course Tyler will have those opportunities.
Like we have a future beyond just surviving.
"Can we play again tomorrow?" Tyler asks as he climbs the porch steps.
Derek glances at me through the screen door, and I see him weighing his answer. "We'll see," he says finally. "Depends on what your mom thinks."
