Page 24
Right before we enter the building, Sabre hands me an envelope. “I brought a picture of Dylan to give to the school,” he says, and his voice has gone quiet and careful. “Your first time seeing what he looks like in years probably shouldn’t be in front of a bunch of strangers.”
With shaking hands, I open the envelope and take out the picture. It’s a paper printout of Dylan’s parole board headshot. He’s older and heavier through the jawline. The image is printed clearly enough for me to make out his dark eyes, the subtle lines around his mouth, and some premature graying in his hair. It’s his eyes that I keep going back to.
When we first met, I thought he had a serious stare. My perception changed after getting to know him, having his rage vented on me, and barely escaping that parking lot without actual brain damage. I realized his serious stare was more of a cold, calculating, predatory gaze. Just looking at the more mature version of my ex sends chills down my spine.
Suddenly, I’m a young girl again, innocent about the ways of the world. I smile at him, and the smile he gives me back is heart stopping. If only I had known what fate had in store for me, I never would have looked in his direction.
Sabre’s hand lands on my arm, and it snaps me back into the moment. “Take a deep breath, darlin’. That fucker is in Montana, and you’re here in California with me. I’m lookin’ out for you and Noah now. You need to stay strong. Me and my club ain’t gonna let anything happen to either of you.”
Swallowing the fear that springs up at the sight of him, I slide the photo back into the envelope. I can never go back, only forward, armed with the knowledge that ever allowing this man into Noah’s life would utterly ruin him.
I nod, my hand coming up to cover his. “You’re right, of course. I need to stay strong for Noah. It’s just shocking to see how Dylan has aged over the last ten years. If I had any delusions about him being rehabilitated, they’re completely gone. If anything, he looks angrier.”
“Yeah, I hear prison will do that to a man.” He jerks his chin towards the door of the school. “We should get to the office before they close for the day.”
Inside the office, we meet with the vice principal, Mr. Shepard. He’s an older man, slight of build, who looks more like a librarian. He stands quietly, explaining the paperwork while the secretary takes a photo of Sabre so they can perform a visual identification if anyone is ever in doubt. I sign off, giving my authorization for him to pick up and drop off Noah and act as another emergency contact in addition to Aunt Carol.
And then I show them the picture of Dylan.
“Who is this?” Mr. Shepard asks. “Another person you want to give permission to pick up your son?”
Looking the vice principal in the eye, I tell him, “No, quite the opposite. This man’s name is Dylan Everett. He attacked me when I was pregnant with Noah. He ended up serving ten years for it and was just released.”
Mr. Shepard’s eyes flash up to mine. “Is he Noah’s father?”
“Legally, my son doesn’t have a father. My name is the only one on his birth certificate, and no one has filed for a paternity test or petitioned the court for parental rights. If that changes, I will let you know immediately. Meanwhile, I want to make sure Dylan Everett doesn’t visit my son here, pick him up or drop him off. I don’t give my permission for any kind of contact between the two of them to be facilitated or permitted on school property.”
“I understand. I need you to make a written statement to that effect, and then both the secretary and I will co-sign as witnesses. Can I keep this image to train our employees on who might pose a problem?”
The secretary hands me a pad and pen. I take them from her and begin scribbling the note. “Yes, that’s for Noah’s file. I believe, based on my prior experience with Dylan Everett and his incarceration for violence, that he poses a direct threat to my son.”
The vice principal and secretary glance at each other. I can see the wariness in their expressions. When we leave the school, the parking lot is a ghost town. Sabre and I say our goodbyes and go our separate ways. All the way home, all I can do is calculate the odds of whether or not Dylan will pop up at some point and turn our lives upside down.
***
The next day is the start of the new schedule. Sabre shows up on time, and Noah doesn’t even give him a chance to get off his bike and ring the bell. He runs out with his backpack strapped tight to his body and his snazzy new helmet strapped down around his head just as tight. They talk for a couple of minutes, and when they take off, Sabre takes it slow. I feel that same churn of emotions watching them together. It’s sweet to see how eager Noah is to spend time with his new protector and how easily Sabre accepts him. Sabre’s body language is casual, and his expression is indulgent. They look for all the world like a couple of guys having a pleasant morning.
Much to my relief, they pull into the driveway exactly on time, my precious son and the man I’m quickly falling in love with. I can tell that riding on the back of Sabre’s motorcycle is the greatest thing in Noah’s world right now. When Sabre stops, Noah jumps off like a grasshopper and begins tugging at the straps of his helmet. By the time Sabre swings off his bike and they turn to walk towards the front porch, they both have their helmets tucked under one arm like twins. They’re laughing and talking up a storm.
When they walk into the house, I realize they’re talking about Noah’s bully, Braden Ford. He’s the stocky boy who’s been calling my son names and making fun of him every chance he gets. I’d talked to Noah about him and offered advice, but it’s one of those occasions where having a male role model is good. Sabre is giving Noah a different perspective.
I step back from the door so I don’t look like the helicopter mom that I clearly am.
Noah says enthusiastically, “Did you see the way he stopped dead in his tracks when he saw you?”
“Yeah, I sometimes have that effect on people,” Sabre says, tossing his helmet into my easy chair. “I think half your school came out to stare at us with their mouths hanging open.” He shoots me a warm look before continuing his conversation with Noah. “I’m not used to getting quite that much attention. It made me feel like a rock star there for a minute.”
“Maybe they thought you were the Terminator, like from the movie.”
“Whatever,” Noah says dismissively. “I just hope he keeps staring instead of mouthing off every time he sees me and shoving me around.”
Shock rolls through my body. “Hold up a minute, bug. When did the shoving start? You just told me he was calling you names.”
He gives me a quick, jerky shrug with both shoulders. “A couple of weeks ago. He shoved me against the wall when we were lining up to leave for recess and again in the lunchroom when I wouldn’t give him my lunch money.”
Stepping closer, I drop down onto one knee and ask, “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”
My nine-year-old son begins to look uncomfortable fast. I can tell because he avoids looking me in the eye, shifts from one leg to another, and doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands.
