This is the part that gets a little sticky. “She passed away,” I tell her, noticing how Oliver favors my darker skin tone but his mother’s slightly upturned nose and the roundness of her eyes.
“How?” she asks, as if she wants to know the answer, yet is afraid of it at the same time.
I exhale. “It’s all a big complicated mess, Lean,” I whisper, the weight of everything settling like an elephant on my chest. “I was told she had a stroke. His mom, Renee, was just…someone I knew. We weren’t dating or anything. I hadn’t even seen her in more than nine months. She worked for the league and was often at the racetrack. Apparently, she missed a few big events and was fired. I don’t know all the details because we never kept in touch after she left. This is just what I heard around the track. I mean, it’s not like we were friends or anything,” I tell her, feeling guilty for not staying in touch with Renee after she left, but it’s the truth. We weren’t friends, we just…fucked on occasion. That makes me sound like the biggest asshole alive, I know, but it’s the truth. Neither of us were expecting anything from the other out of it, and we damn sure weren’t the only ones doing it. It was consensual every damn time, yet I still feel this horrible guilt now that she’s gone, mixed with my anger.
Yes, anger.
Why the fuck didn’t she tell me about my son?
“So, you guys were…fuck buddies?” she asks, almost in a business-like voice.
“Yeah,” I answer, glancing her way once more, but she’s not looking at me. Lena’s staring at the floor again, as if it’s the most interesting hardwood floor known to man.
When her eyes meet mine, it’s a startling clash of pain and confusion. “But you didn’t know about Oliver?”
“No. I never heard from her after she left. Hell, I don’t even know where she went. All I know is she gave birth to Oliver three weeks ago in her hometown of Fresno, putting me down as the father on the birth certificate. I was told she mentioned me to her mom, but refused to go into details about our relationship. When she died, her mom reached out to the state and told them of the situation. That’s when they stepped in and called me yesterday morning.”
“So, now you’re just taking care of him?” she asks, her eyes locked on the bundle in my arms.
“Yeah,” I tell her, wishing I could run my hands through my hair again. Unfortunately, they’re both busy right now, feeding Oliver. “Mrs. Reynolds, the social worker, told me Renee’s mom is sick. Cancer, I guess, and she didn’t feel comfortable taking care of the baby if I’m able to do it. What was I supposed to say? No?” I ask, incredulously. I’ve only known about the boy for a day, but there was no way I could walk away and leave Renee’s mom with the burden of caring for him, or worse, someone in foster care.
Lena smiles softly at Oliver. “I think you did the right thing.”
“You do?” I ask.
Those green eyes meet mine once more as she nods. “I mean, what else were you supposed to do?”
“Right,” I say, noticing the bottle is about half empty already. I remove it from Oliver’s mouth, just the way Fish instructed me to, and carefully transfer him to my shoulder. I’m still a little uncertain on this part, but I was actually about to get a burp from him during his last feeding without my friend’s assistance. Oliver squawks but calms down a bit as I gently start to pat his back.
When I glance over, I see Lena watching my every move.
“Fish had to give me a crash course in fatherhood,” I tell her, as I rest my nose against his soft baby head.
“I thought he didn’t have any kids,” she says.
“He doesn’t, but he’s the oldest of eight kids,” I tell her. “When he was a teenager, he was helping his parents with all his younger siblings, including the newborns. There are like twelve years between him and the youngest Fisher kid. For the last few years, he was always talking about them, so when Mrs. Reynolds showed up yesterday with my son, I called him for help.”
“He’s a good friend.”
I glance her way before replying, “He is. The best. But don’t tell him I told you that. It’ll go to his head, and that’ll be all he talks about for weeks.” I offer her a small grin just as Oliver lets a small belch fly. With a kiss to the crown of his head, I shift him back into the crook of my arm to finish his bottle.
After a few minutes of quiet, Lena finally asks, “So why am I here, Mack? What do you need help with?”
Just the sound of her saying my name, my first name—not my last name as everyone has become accustomed to calling me—takes me right back to a time I’ve tried to forget. A time where it was just us against the world, usually me covered in grease and her sitting on a stool, camera in hand as she snapped photo after photo of whatever sparked her interest.
Knowing I just need to get this out, I angle my body toward her, maintain eye contact, and tell her exactly why she’s here. “I need your help raising Oliver. At least for a little while.”
She seems stunned. So stunned, in fact, she doesn’t say anything for several seconds. Seconds that feel like long minutes, actually, but in reality, aren’t that long. “I can’t,Mack. I can’t stay here and raise your son. I have a life and a job in Kansas,” she replies, flabbergasted by my request.
I expected this, really. I mean, as much as I’d love for Lena to jump at the opportunity to practically move here and help me raise my son, I knew it wasn’t likely. So I have an offer prepared. “What about for a short term? Like two months?”
She just gapes at me, as if I’ve lost my mind. “You’re serious?” she asks, as she gets up from the couch and starts to pace the room. “What about Fish?”
“He’s getting ready to head home for a week. His grandpa passed away, so he’s off to Oklahoma to bury him.”
She walks back and forth, from the front door to the hallway and then back again. “What about…someone else?”
“There is no one else, Lean.” My voice drops as I glance down at my son. “No one I trust anyway. Not with something this big.” When I glance back up, she’s standing directly in front of me, her eyes as wide as hubcaps. “You know this business. No one understands this commitment like you do. I need someone I trust to help me with Oliver. At least for a little while.”
“Two months?” Her question is barely above a whisper.
“That’s negotiable, but I’d love your help as long as I can get it. We’re off this weekend from racing, but I have to go to Fresno on Friday for Renee’s memorial service. There are four more races in the upcoming weeks, and I’m not sure how it’s going to work with having Oliver at the racetrack with me. There’s so much to figure out, and I just don’t know what to do.”
Just then, Oliver spits out the bottle and curls up in my arm. He fits so snuggly there, as if my arms were always meant to hold him. Recalling what Fish said about burping, even when he falls asleep, I move him back to my shoulder and tap his back.
Lena returns to the couch, this time sitting a lot closer to me than before. She watches as I burp Oliver, her brain spinning a million miles a second. It amazes me how easy it is to read her, the way I was able to years ago. “I can’t stay here for two months, Mack.”