K. Bromberg - Aced

“Let’s go, little man. Let’s see if we can make your momma smile.”

FADING IN.

My moments with Ace, the ones I can feel, I try to hold tight to them. Try to use them to keep me afloat. Soak them in.

A text from Colton: Photograph by Ed Sheeran.

A rush of warmth. A flash of happy. The recollection of that night. Of sweetness. A picture frame waiting to be filled. Memories to make.

Panic I won’t be able to make it. A struggle to hold on to the good from the song, and not the bad. Please help me hold on to the good.

Falling out.

Thoughts come. Thoughts go.

The house a constant revolving door: my mom, Haddie, Dorothea, Quinlan. Frustrating me. Reviving me. Holding me up so I can fall, but not be alone when I do.

My mom. Opening blinds. Zipping through the house like Mary Poppins infusing her cheer to try and make me smile. Except I can’t smile. I can’t feel anything. Watching her hold Ace, coo over him, connecting with him should make me happy, jealous—anything—and yet I feel absolutely nothing.

The clock ticks. Time in Ace’s life I can’t get back.

My Colton. I watch him with Ace. Day after day. Night after night. Moments I capture, file away, and pray can keep. Colton asleep with Ace on his chest, tiny fingers curled against his muscles. Made-up lullabies that dig into the fog and make me feel something . . . lighter. A flicker of warmth. A strand of hope. A moment I can embrace.

Before the lead curtain falls again.

Seconds spent.

A tug of war of inner wills.

Hours gone.

And every night, Colton pulls me against him as we lie in bed and murmurs in my ear the wonderful memories we still have to make to put in our picture frame. The warmth of his body against mine is his subtle reminder to his wife, who is still lost in her own mind, that she’s not alone.

Days lost.

“Teddy called today,” Colton says. The ocean breeze is cool. The soothing surge from Ace nursing a little stronger today. The fog a little lighter.

“Hmm?” Afraid to hope. Wanting to know but fearing the worst.

“The board voted to keep him on as director.” An unexpected flutter. A tinge of excitement. “You’ll be reinstated if you choose to go back to work after your maternity leave.”

A deep breath in. Exhale out.

“Mm-hmm.” A bit of inflection.

Colton’s smile at my response. I love his smile. The feel of Ace’s hand kneading my breast. I love his little hands . A glimpse of hope.

A pile of jumbled jigsaw pieces. Two finally fitting together.

A text from Colton: I’ll Follow You by Jon McLaughlin

He tries so hard to keep me above the fray. To do anything to help me hold on a little longer than last time. A message to tell me I’m not alone. That it’s okay.

A pinprick of light at the end of the tunnel.

You can do this.

Change is never easy.

Fight to hold on.

Fight to let go.

Fight because they’re your whole world.

“I STILL CAN’T GET OVER it.”

“Get over what?” I ask as I look from where Ace is passed out on my chest—mouth open, hands up, legs apart. Content as fuck. And thankfully asleep since he’s been running me ragged.

“You. A dad.” Becks chuckles with a shake of his head.

“Yeah well, he looks sweet right now . . . but don’t let him fool you. He’s a stubborn little cuss. He had me up to my elbows in shit earlier. Not a pretty sight.” Fucking disgusting. But shit, I’d do it a hundred more times if I could be rewarded by the soft smile on Rylee’s face when I looked up and saw her standing in the doorway watching us.

Becks throws his head back and laughs. “Fuck. I would have paid to see that.”

“No. You wouldn’t,” I deadpan, “but you do what you have to do.”

Becks nods his head and lifts his chin toward the pool deck where Rylee is reading. Baby steps. Tiny bits of her returning to me. “Haddie says she’s doing better?”

“One step forward. Three back.” I shrug. “But at least we’re moving, right? Just trying to figure out our new kind of normal or some shit like that.”

“And you’re hanging in there?”

“Most days,” I say with a laugh. “But God I’d kill to get on the track. I need some speed to clear my head and give me a chance to not think for a bit.”

“Not thinking is what you do best. You don’t need to hit the track for that.”

“Fuck off,” I say with a laugh. And regardless of my response, I welcome the dig. Need a bit of our typical banter to get a little part of my normal.

“Dude, you better watch your mouth or else Ace’s first word is going to be fuck. And while it would be funny as fuck,” he says, raising his eyebrows at the intended pun, “I think that might earn you a spot in the doghouse.”

“True . . . but fuck—”

“There you go again.” He laughs, causing me to just shake my head and sigh.

“This is going to be harder than I thought.”

“Most good things in life are,” he says with a lift of his eyebrows. And I stare at him for a beat, hearing what he’s saying. That shit’s tough right now but it’s all worth it.

Damn straight it is.

“Like I said, just say when and I’ll get the track time reserved for you,” he says as he stands. His unspoken, I’ve got your back , comes through loud and clear.

“Thanks . . . for everything.”

“No problem, brother. That’s what I’m here for.”

They’re gone.

I’m thankful the vultures have packed up shop and gotten the hell out of Dodge, but I still can’t believe it’s true. I check the live feed on my phone from the security camera mounted on the front gate one more time. The street’s still free and clear of paparazzi scum who had been camping out there for what felt like for-fucking-ever.

Thank God they listened for once. Chased the story I hand-fed them about Eddie. Uncovered truths behind his actions: his desperate and fucked-up act to exact revenge on my wife because he was found guilty. Paparazzi’s apologies mean shit to me. They’re just covering their asses from getting sued for slander. Besides, I know it won’t stop them from doing the same thing with their next story, their next lead, their next chance to fuck up someone else’s life.

Of course, I’m not blind to the fact they’re all playing nice in the hopes of getting first crack at pictures of Ace if we ever decide to go that route and sell the rights. So I’ll take their printed retractions. Use their hope to clear our street and rid our lives of their constant presence. But more than anything I’ll hold tight to the fact that their apologies have helped restore Rylee’s reputation.

Too bad she’s so lost in her depression she doesn’t know it.

Because while their apologies may have restored calm outside the gates, they’ve done nothing to quiet the storm still brewing inside them.

From my chair on the patio, I set my cell down and watch the set of waves roll in, immediately itching to grab my board and get lost in the ocean. My mind wanders. Thoughts run. Will Ace want me to teach him to surf some day? Will he be interested in racing?

Or will I just be the authority he resists until he gets old enough to understand the why behind my rules? Like father, like son .