Page 41 of Accidental Alliance

Before he can study me any longer, I tilt my head and add, “How about we make sundaes when we get home?”

Just as quickly as it appeared, Matteo’s scrutiny vanishes beneath pure delight. His eyes brighten, all suspicion washed away by the promise of sugar and celebration. He gasps dramatically. “Really?”

I laugh, more honestly this time. “Yup.”

He throws his arms up over his head with a loud whoop!

Before he can get carried away, I point a finger at him. “After you shower, though.”

The groan I get in response is immediate and theatrical enough to draw a smile from one of the other mothers passing by with a cooler dragging behind her.

“But Moooom,” he drags out, his head tipping back and his body swaying in an effort to fight the urge to collapse onto the grass from sheer dramatics. “I’m not even that dirty!”

I raise a brow and glance down at the streak of grass and dirt running down his shins and the damp collar of his jersey.

He follows my gaze, looks back at me, and sighs. “Okay, fine… but can I have marshmallow sauce and chocolate syrup?”

“We’ll discuss it in negotiations.”

He squints up at me. “That sounds like a yes.”

“That sounds like you’re getting ahead of yourself.”

He grins, already certain he has won.

I sling the folded chair over one shoulder once again, pick up his water bottle and extra pair of cleats with my free hand, and he slips his hand into mine.

His fingers are still slightly sticky, his palm warm as it squeezes mine. We start the walk home hand in hand.

Matteo chatters the entire way, his words bouncing off the sidewalk ahead of us like stones skipping across water.

He tells me exactly how the first goal happened even though I watched it myself. He reenacts the second with exaggerated arm motions that nearly make him trip over the curb and informs me with complete certainty that he is definitely making the school team once tryouts start in a few weeks because Coach said his field awareness is getting “super advanced”.

He talks about which of his teammates he thinks might get moved up too, which kid he secretly thinks is terrible at defense, and why goalie is “important but kind of boring to play”.

I half-listen, not because I do not care. I care so much it physically pains me. Every wonderfully ordinary thing he says hits a spot that is tender inside me. Each sentence is another reminder of what I am trying to preserve and what is at stake, what I may have to uproot before he even understands why if worse comes to worse.

The street heading back to our cul-de-sac looks exactly as it did this morning. Kids on bikes ride along the side of the road in loose, looping circles, their laughter lifting on the breeze.

Distant lawnmowers rumble somewhere behind the houses in that lazy, suburban rhythm that once felt almost comically absurd to me when I first settled here.

A woman farther down waters her front flowerbeds in rubber sandals and a sun hat and waves when we pass. Wind chimes clink softly from one of the porches.

The whole neighborhood glows with the easy, sun-washed safety I chose it for.

And yet, I cannot stop seeing the danger hiding in the shadows.

When we turn onto our street, the little blue house comes into view at the end of the cul-de-sac, looking exactly as it always does.

The flowers in the pot on the porch are drooping because I forgot to water them yesterday. Matteo’s scooter lies tipped on its side near the front steps.

The door to our mailbox is slightly ajar from the postman stopping by earlier.

It is home.

That word should soothe me. Normally, one look at our little blue house at the end of the cul-de-sac is enough to ease something deep in my chest. Home means Matteo’s sneakers kicked crookedly by the door and grocery lists stuck to the fridge with school magnets.

It means the couch with one sagging cushion and the cabinet that sticks in humid weather and the faint smell of vanilla from the candle I light at night after he falls asleep. It’s the smallest, softest version of happiness I ever trusted myself to want.