Page 11 of Perfect for Her

I have a son.

I have a four-year-old son.

I spent all of last night and most of this morning sitting in complete silence, running back the events of the last few hours over and over again in my mind. How the hell did this happen? How the hell did my emotions go from an eternal high of having Harlow back in my arms to betrayal when I saw those young eyes staring back at me? I need more answers.

I need to meet my son.

Before I can even lift my hand to knock, the door opens and Harlow stands before me wearing jean shorts, a Guns n’ Roses T-shirt that is way too big, and knee-high socks. If I wasn’t so nervous, I would comment on how fucking edible she looks right now. But instead of saying any of that, I stand there stock-still, mouth slightly open and eyes wide.

“I heard you come up the stairs and was waiting for you to knock, but when you didn’t, I decided to come and get you.” Her smirk is enough to bring me to my knees, but thankfully I get myself together, stuff my hands in my pockets, and smile.

“Can we talk?” I ask, wondering if our chat yesterday was enough to make her wary of being around me, but when her shoulders relax and that smile graces her face, I let out a breath.

“Sure, come in.”

The second I step foot in the house and Harlow shuts the door behind me, I smell chocolate chip cookies.

“Sorry about the mess, I was making cookies as a reward for Ethan learning to count to fifty on his own.”

My eyes scan the room, wondering where she thinks the mess is because from where I’m standing this place looks immaculate.

“Where is Ethan?” The words stick to the back of my throat, causing my voice to crack as a knowing smile plays on the edges of Harlow’s lips. I want to be comfortable around Ethan. I want to make this as simple as possible for him, but right now I feel like I’m about to throw up all over the floor.

“Upstairs. I told him I’d call him when the cookies are ready, but I know he’s waiting for the timer to go off.” She smiles that sweet smile, the love for that kid clear in the way she speaks and my heart thunders in my chest. “Did you want to sit down?”

The uncertainty in her voice gives me pause, but I brush it off and follow her into the living room, memories flooding my head as I stare at the couch. When our eyes connect and that blush graces her cheeks, I know she’s thinking the exact same thing.

“Does he know who I am?” The question lingers between us and the second she nods her head, yes, my eyes widen because that is not the answer I was expecting. “You told him about me?” That flicker of anger still lingers under the surface because if she intended to keep him from me, why did she tell him I even exist when it would have been easier just to lie?

“I never lied to him,” she admits, her voice soft as her eyes peer at the staircase, probably checking to make sure the kid isn’t eavesdropping. “I almost did. When he was three, he asked why his dad wasn’t around like the other kids at the park and I panicked.”

I close my eyes, wondering what life would have been like for him and me if Harlow didn’t keep us apart.

“What did you tell him?” The voice in my head is telling me that I don’t want to know, that the unknown is better than the truth but the reality is, I need to know. That pit in my stomach won’t go away until I know everything.

“I told him that his dad lived in America and that he was working really hard and loved him so much.”

I shake my head, the concept too simple to grasp. “And that’s it. He believed that?” I question, thinking she’s lying to me.

“Mark, he’s four, when I told him he was barely three. The kid barely has the attention span to watch a full episode of Transformers on TV let alone grasp the concept of where his dad is and why.”

Her words sink in as I take a deep breath, the uncertainty from earlier washing away with every tilt of her lips.

Just as I open my mouth to ask something else, the timer on the stove goes off and we both hear little footsteps above us, running down the hall, flying down the stairs until he stops dead when he sees me sitting on the couch.

“Mommy?” His small voice echoes in the silent room before Harlow jumps into action, peering over at me and mouthing, “Can you get the cookies?”

I give her a slight nod before heading into the kitchen, leaving her to talk to our son.

Our son.

Even those two words send a blaze of fear into my stomach I wasn’t expecting. I am now responsible for a small human life. How the fuck am I supposed to do that? My eyes search the counter for the oven mitts, when I find them, I take out the cookies, close my eyes and inhale the scent, my mind goes back to when my mother used to make us cookies on Saturday nights. Just as I set the pan down, I hear small footfalls behind me, and when I turn, I see my mini-me staring up at me.

“Do you like dinosaurs?” he asks as if I’m not some stranger from the street that is standing in his kitchen wearing his mother’s oven mitts.

“I don’t know. I’ve never really known much about them,” I admit, watching as his whole body locks and his eyes go wide.

“You don’t know anything about dinosaurs!” he squeals, running into the living room right as Harlow walks into the kitchen. I give her a confused glance and she shakes her head, like this is normal behavior for him and to just go with it.

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