Page 18 of Sterling Clay

“My point is, I don’t use the constructs boy or girl with him yet. He’s just Dutton. My adorable, sweet, loving six-year-old, who has had a rough go of life so far.”

Within seconds, Clay responds, as if he didn’t need time to choose his words carefully or respectfully. His thoughts are instantaneous. “I think love is all that matters, especially for a child. Loving Dutton as he is, for who he is, is all he needs. The best thing you can do for him is love him.”

I could hug him.

Sadness fills his voice before he clears his throat. “About that rough life, though, . . .” His eyes meet mine, softening a little, but I predict what’s coming next. He should know more about us. He deserves to know more if we’re staying in his home. I’d simply hoped I could put off truth telling for a little longer.

“How about a beer?” Clay asks. “Then we can sit on the couch for a chat.”

I lower my head like a chastised child, preparing for a lecture about bad behavior when I’ve been labeled a good girl most of my life. “I’ll get you one.”

Clay’s fingers come to my chin, startling me and I flinch back from the sudden touch. His hand holds still a second before he flips it, palm up. “I’ll get you one. Take a seat.”

Anxiety spikes within me as we trade places. Him heading for the kitchen, me heading for his couch. With the nerves inside me rattling a little harder, I swipe my hands over my thighs again as I take a seat.

Clay quickly joins me, settling at the opposite end of the couch, placing his back in the corner. He hands me my beer and taps the neck of his against mine. “To chats.”

I don’t reply, watching as he lifts his beer and takes a long pull while I only take a hesitant sip of mine. I’m not much of a drinker, especially beer.

When Clay lowers his beer to his thigh, he watches me. With his other arm extended on the back of the couch and one leg hitched up on the cushions, he looks like a mature model, the essence of casualness, about to have a photo taken.

“I’m not going to push, but like telling me about Dutton, which I appreciate, I’d like to know whatever else you feel comfortable telling me.”

I sigh, glancing down at my beer bottle and picking at the label with my thumbnail. “But you already know things about me.” I was surprised he remembered my name. Surprised he recognized me after a year’s absence from this town. But I shouldn’t be surprised he’d recall a thing or two about me from when I’d lived here.

“I want to hear them from you.”

Certain he’ll kick me out after I spill my tale, I inhale. I don’t have anything left to lose that I haven’t already lost, so telling Clay a few things isn’t going to hurt.

I glance up at him. “Wesley and I moved here about five years ago. He said it’d be a fresh start for us. A beginning. We hadn’t been dating very long before Dutton came along.”

I weakly smile, remembering how pretty Wesley’s promises sounded. We’d get married. We’d raise a family in a small town. Life would be easier, better than it had been in Florida.

“We bought the house and started renovating.” My head lowers. “I’d been worried from the beginning that the house was too much. Too much money, too much space, too many projects, but Wesley kept saying we’d fill it with more children. And we had the funds.”

I turn my head and glance toward the now dark window panels, staring out into the night. “But we didn’t have the money. The house had been expensive, and all the renovations added up.”

Wesley tackled a few projects on his own, but eventually, he was fed up with DIY, and started hiring out the work. We needed functioning bathrooms and a serviceable kitchen. I didn’t know anything about the contractors who took the jobs. But I quickly learned we owed more money than we had.

“I’d been lucky to find a nursing job at the local hospital. We hired an older person in the area to watch Dutton. Wesley was gone a lot.”

At the time, I’d thought Wesley was a salesman. Poultry was his business. He had customers all over the United States and some even overseas. He was gone for large chunks of time.

Turning back toward Clay, I see he continues to observe me. Eyes kind and patient. Forehead furrowed with concern. What I’m telling him is only surface level.

“Time passed. Wesley was gone more often than home. And when he was present, life was . . . unpleasant. He had these ideals of what a wife should be while not living up to husband-standards. He criticized me often.” I swallow hard as Clay’s eyes darken. His fingers once loosely holding his beer bottle tighten around the glass. “And he was cruel to Dutton.”

“How?” Clay’s voice cracks.

I shake my head and lower my gaze. “He wasn’t as open to letting him be who he wanted to be. He called him names. Criticized him and his choices. And he accused me of babying him, making him weak.”

I swallow around the bile in my throat. The sick sensation within my gut every time I think of what Wesley said, and how I’d defend Dutton. The insults turned from an unnecessary teasing of Dutton to venomous abuse toward me.

“Did he ever touch Dutton? Lay a hand on him?” The strain in Clay’s voice rises. His knuckles whiten against the brown bottle in his hand.

“He went for him once. I got in the way.” I don’t close my eyes. Don’t need to recall the way I threw myself between man and child and took the slap that sent me to the floor.

We’d been arguing about finances, about his absences, and about our relationship before that moment occurred.