Page 5 of Forbidden Dreams
“Yeah,” he replies quickly, his eyes going down to his plate. “He’ll get bored of it soon enough.”
“I think so too,” I agree with him, but one thing he doesn’t know about his father is, he doesn’t like for anyone to think he’s failed. And me serving him divorce papers and then taking his son away from him is him failing. He doesn’t want his son to spend time with him. Nope, he wants his son so he can parade him down Main Street and pretend to be the perfect father.
“Do I have to go next Sunday?” he asks, looking up at me. When we first went to court, Winston got him every weekend, but he never showed up. So, when he took me to court again, I brought it up, and the judge gave him every second Sunday. In the past six months, he’s been there twice out of thirteen times. For the past two months, he hasn’t shown up at all. Not once. Not even for one second. But he has graced my door in the middle of the night, case in point, a couple of days ago.
“Your father wants to see you.” I am really being the better person instead of saying no. But the last thing I need is not to show up and be dragged into court again. This time, I don’t have a lawyer; I don’t even have money to call a lawyer. So I’d be sitting by myself at the table while the Cartwrights’ stuffed-shirt lawyer shows up. “We have to go and do a bit of back-to-school shopping,” I tell him. “Are you excited about starting school?”
“Yeah,” he says, letting the talk of his father go. When he gets old enough, he’ll decide what to do and only him. If he wants to have a relationship with his father, that is what will happen.
“Before we leave,” I say, taking a bite of the biscuit and the apple butter, making sure not to make a face to show him how bad it is, “I have to drop the pie off next door.”
“How come?” He takes the last bite of his sandwich.
“Because it’s the neighborly thing to do.” I don’t add in to thank him for coming out and scaring the shit out of your father and making the whole exchange a lot shorter than it would have been.
“Okay.” He gets up, taking his plate to the sink and dusting off the crumbs before placing it in the dishwasher that is full of my baking stuff. He finds a space on the top rack. “I’m going to get changed,” he announces, and I get up from my own chair and clean my plate.
“I’m going to take the pie over,” I tell him, “and then I’ll come back.”
“Okay, Momma,” he says, running upstairs to the bedroom. I wash off my hands and start the dishwasher before grabbing the warm pie and placing it in a dish so I can carry it. I step out of the house, nervously walking down the steps and heading to the street instead of going through the weeds and tall grass on the side.
I look up at the house, and I’m in awe of the beauty of it. White railing all in front of the house, and also on the upper balcony level with black shutters beside every single window in the front. Walking up the five steps, I look over to the left side where two white rocking chairs move with the light wind. Then turn to look to the right side that leads down to the gazebo part of the porch. Two beautiful wicker chairs face a wicker couch with a table in the middle.
I look up at the white screen door, lifting my hand and knocking on it. My heart speeds up with nerves as my mouth gets dry. I should have probably just left it with a note, I think when the door opens, and he stands there. His gym shorts are gone, and now he’s wearing a pair of jeans and a T-shirt that has the bar logo on it. His eyes pierce through the screen door, making my nerves shoot through the roof even more. My hands get sweaty as I concentrate on not dropping the fucking pie on his pristine porch.
“Hi,” I say, cutting the silence between us, “sorry to interrupt you.” I’m tripping over my words. “I came to bring you this.” I hold up the pie in my hands, and I suddenly want the floor to open up and swallow me. “It’s really nothing.” I’m still rambling, my brain telling me to shut the fuck up while my mouth just continues going. “It’s just a little something to say thank you for… the other night.”
His hand goes to the door handle as he pushes the screen door open, and I see his hair is still wet. “You didn’t have to do that,” he says, and I never realized how deep his voice is. I mean, truth be told, it’s not like I sat down and had a conversation with him, ever. His family was the Cartwrights’ archenemies, so no way would that ever happen.
“Well, I have all the time in the world since I don’t have a job.” I cringe and really want to tell myself to literally shut the fuck up. “Well, this has been fun,” I mumble and see him smirk, which lights up his green eyes. “It’s still warm,” I tell him, reaching my hands out for him to take the plate.
“Thank you,” he says, grabbing the plate from me. “I’ll return the plate once it’s done.”
“Oh yeah.” I didn’t even think of that when I was baking this morning. “No rush.”
“I’ll take it over to my dad. It’s his favorite.” I smile at him. I’ve heard his father is sick, and as someone who misses her father like crazy since he passed away, I feel for him so much.
“Hopefully, it’s as good as it looks.” I nod at him, starting to walk away but stopping and turning back. “You have a lovely home.” I really wish I had a friend with me who would pull my hand away before I say anything more. “Have a nice day,” I finally finish and walk away from him. I listen for the screen door to slam shut, but not even when I get to my house do I hear it. When I look back, he’s still standing there watching me. My stomach flips over as I walk into the house and shut the door before my back leans on it, and I close my eyes. “Smooth.” I look over to the side, seeing the living room empty. “Very fucking smooth.”
Wyatt comes down the steps dressed in shorts and a T-shirt. I grab my purse, and we head out. My eyes avoid looking at the house next door, but I have to look that way when I’m pulling out and see that his truck is gone. We spend most of the day out of the house, driving as far as I can to do our shopping and then stopping at the park so he can play before heading home for dinner. When I get home, his truck is back in its parking space, but after dinner while I’m cleaning the plates, I notice it gone again. I look down at the pots, letting my thoughts wander. I’m thinking about him when I shouldn’t be thinking about him.
I force Wyatt to take a shower and tuck him into bed before heading down and starting my dough for the following morning. I’m turning off the lights in the kitchen and headed up to bed when I see the headlights coming into the house. My stomach sinks when the car door opens, and Winston gets out. “Here we go.”
CHAPTER 5
Brady
I pull up on the street at the same time as I see Winston get out of his car, slamming his door with all his might. I shake my head. “Why the fuck is this happening to me?” I mutter as I turn into my driveway. Turning the truck off and getting out, I feel the tightness in my neck as I hear him pounding on the door. At least it’s not in the middle of the night this time, but still, showing up at eleven o’clock to bang on his ex-wife’s door is sad and pathetic.
I stand by my truck in the darkness, leaning against the back end of the cab as I watch him walk up the steps. He’s not stumbling this time, so I guess it’s a good thing. I’m just going to stand here and make sure everything is okay, I tell myself as his hand comes up, and he pounds as hard as he can on the door. “Harmony!” He shouts her name. “Get your ass back here.”
Back here, I think to myself. Has he already shown up here tonight? The door swings open before he can pound on it again. “Would you stop pounding on my door?” she hisses. Walking out and closing the door behind her, she’s probably trying to keep her son from waking up.
“Fuck you,” he snorts. I start to make my way to her front door again, knowing I should just call the sheriff and be done with it. Yet knowing how his family operates, he probably has them in his back pocket. “This has gone on long enough. Get your ass and your things and bring my son back home.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” she declares. “Aren’t you tired of it yet? I’m not coming home, Winston. Not now, not ever. It’s over.” She folds her arms over her chest. “It has been over for a long time.”
“I should have listened to my mother,” he continues talking, “when she told me you were a sorry piece of ass.” My hands fist tightly, listening to his words, the way he’s talking to the mother of his child. “I felt sorry for you, and look at the trouble you’ve caused me.” I can see her face fall as she listens to what he says. “You were a poor, pathetic girl, and I saved you from that shithole!” he roars out the last part. “I should have left you there to rot, you good for nothing, piece of?—”