Page 7 of Scoring Eden

“Is Macon in his room?” I ask Aspen.

She picked him up from school today, since I had to work late. At twenty-two, my sister is still in college. She’s knee deep in her final year at the University of Washington, studying comparative history of ideas (not that I know what that is), and is drowning in papers and exams. Yet, she dropped everything to help me when I needed her.

I may have a shitty job, no money, and have to sleep on a futon every night so my son can have the only available bedroom, but at least I have my sister.

“Yeah. He’s supposed to be packing, but I’m pretty sure he’s in there performing the Hamilton soundtrack.”

That sounds like my son.

I find him standing on his bed, wearing a gold-buttoned tailcoat and a pair of long boots he must have stolen from my closet. He brandishes a cucumber like a pistol, flawlessly rapping the words to “My Shot’ without once taking a breath.

Just the sight of him causes the day’s heaviness to finally lift from my chest. It’ll return the moment his dad picks him up, I know, but for the moment, I cherish the lightness in my heart as I step farther into the room.

He clutches his side with a silent scream and launches himself backward onto the mattress. His stuffed hippo goes flying into the wall from the force, limp gray limbs flailing in the air. Macon jumps to his feet and points the cucumber at his stuffie on the floor. “Fire!” He mimics the sound of gunshots, popping the vegetable back to mimic a recoil.

“Poor Mr. Snuggles.” I sweep the hippo off the floor and look at my son with wide eyes. “Quick, Macon. He needs CPR.”

He doesn’t waste a second. Springing off the mattress, he lands in front of me and steals his stuffie from my hands. Laying him on the floor, he presses two fingers to Mr. Snuggles’ chest, pumping up and down until he finally leans back on his heels with a dramatic sigh. He swipes his floppy bangs off his forehead and declares that Mr. Snuggles will live to see another day.

“Well, thank goodness for that.” I grin at him, ruffling his hair. He turned ten six weeks ago, early December, and already he looks like a miniature man. I home in on his tailcoat—a leftover jacket from last year’s Halloween costume—that swamped his little frame just three months ago but now hangs from him as if it was tailor-made.

My son is growing up. And there isn’t a damn thing I can do to slow it down.

“Your dad will be here soon, buddy. How’s the packing going?”

His brown eyes flick to the empty bag left abandoned by the hat stand that holds his fedora collection. “Ummm…”

I know his game. It happens every month. He thinks that if he doesn’t pack, then he doesn’t have to go.

Unfortunately, it’s one of those unchangeable facets of life. Like a thunderstorm on his birthday, or a fifteen percent pay decrease, or the dreams I had to give up at eighteen to take care of a newborn baby. His father and I have a mandated custody agreement, and we have to abide by that.

“Are you taking Mr. Snuggles?” I ask, my voice gentle.

He turns the hippo over in his hands, frowning down at it. “Dad says I’m too old for a stuffie.”

Fuck you, Sebastian.

If Aspen decides to slip him another laxative or, hell, tie him to a tree and drain the lifeforce out of his cold, serpentine body, I wouldn’t stand in her way.

Sebastian Hague can rot in Hell for all I care.

“You’re not too old for Mr. Snuggles, Macon.” I reach for his hand and tug him toward me. He perches on the edge of his space-themed bed. “Lots of kids your age still have a bedtime buddy, and your dad shouldn’t make you feel bad about it.”

He still looks unsure.

“You wanna leave him here?”

He nods, crawling to the top of his bed, where he tucks Mr. Snuggles under the covers and kisses the top of his head…exactly the way I do when I put him to bed.

“Will you sleep okay without him?”

He nods again, but I see the lie in it. I won’t push the issue, though.

Sometimes, like now, he still seems like the tiny human who would crawl into my bed when he had a bad dream, who would present me with a tiny scratch on his finger for me to kiss better, and sit on my lap to watch TV at the end of the day with Mr. Snuggles under his arm and his thumb in his mouth. Other times, he’s desperate to grow up.

Parenting a ten-year-old is a game of push and pull, and it’s one I haven’t quite mastered yet.

“Is your phone charged?”