Chapter 2
I busied myself in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher, scrubbing the pans from the night before, and sweeping the floor. I expected Morgan to resume his place at the table and wait for me, feet kicking impatiently at the chair legs.
“Morgan!” I waited several beats, then tried again. “Morgan! Come on, we’ve got to get moving. Let’s go.”
Still no response.
I knew what I’d find before I opened his door, but I still made a show of being utterly astoundedthat he didn’t have his shoes on or his hair combed. In fact, he was even less ready than before, since he’d changed into a ratty green T-shirt that should have been tossed in the trash last summer.
“I just needed to do something real quick,” Morgan protested.
“No, you didn’t. You needed to put your shoes on and get ready to go to the park. Now get up.”
“But—”
“Get off the computer right now.”
“I just need to get to a save.”
“I’m going to unplug the computer if you don’t get up. Honestly, Morgan. You know better than this.”
“Why can’t I just stay here? I don’t get to play at all when I’m at Mom’s.”
“So I should just let you sit in front of the computer all day? Come on. Grab your baseball mitt. We’ll play catch.”
“I don’t want to play catch. I suck at it anyway.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do. The ball always hits me in the face.”
“The ball hit your face once. Two years ago.”
“No, it was last year.”
“But you admit it was only one time. Fine, we won’t play catch. Just please put your shoes on.”
Morgan was a good kid, and generally, I didn’t have to ask him more than ten or twelve times. He stepped over to the bed and pulled his Keds on with jerky, short gestures.
“You don’t have to watch me,” Morgan grumbled.
“Yes, I do. Don’t forget your hat.”
We got out of the house only thirty minutes later than I planned. Morgan grudgingly agreed to hold my hand, but he made it clear that it was another thing he absolutely detested about the day. Wouldn’t it be easier to just let him stay on the damned computer? Unfortunately, the path of least resistance usually wasn’t the path to great parenting. But Morgan clearly resented every minute we spent together, so I wasn’t sure if I’d even recognize the path of great parenting.
The park was just around the corner, four city blocks long and three wide. I fell in love with it the first time I saw it and it was pretty much the deciding factor when I chose my apartment. I envisioned spending hours there with Morgan, playing catch, running laps on the jogger’s circuit, maybe even bringing hypothetical dogs there for their hypothetical walks. Since I couldn’t afford a house with a proper yard, this seemed an excellent compromise for fresh air and sunshine. The closest Morgan would ever get to the simple pleasure I had growing up in the country, away from the city’s noise and pollution. I don’t know exactly what Morgan saw when he looked at the park, but I had a good guess that it didn’t involve carefree joy and hours of entertainment
“Why don’t you go start on the swings?” I suggested.
“Okay.” Morgan dragged his feet like I’d sent him to his executioner. I followed at a slower pace, surveying the play area for any familiar faces. I recognized a few of the fathers and nodded at their small waves. Some of the mothers waved, too, a few with smiles that seemed a little too welcoming. The park after dark was more my style—not that I’d ever cruised the park—but apparently women had the same sort of idea when the sun was out. At least a percentage of the single mothers there seemed to be interested in dating. Specifically, they were interested in dating me.
A blond man on the other side of the sandbox caught my attention. He was definitely new—I’d remember that face and body. A blind man would. He seemed a little out of place, standing by himself on the grass with his arms folded and a heavy frown that was definitely out of place among the laughing kids. He didn’t seem unhappy, like Morgan who wasn’t even pretending to swing at that point, but I had the sense that he didn’t know what to make of the chaos in front of him.
“Come on, Morgan. I’ll give you a push.”
“Fine.”
I pulled him off the ground by about a foot and sent him sailing forward. He kept his knees bent and didn’t even try to swing the momentum backward. He came to a stop with the bottom of his shoes sliding over the sand.