"What's up, baby?"
"I don't like it here," he says, his small voice breaking at the end. I suck in a deep breath to calm myself down. Ian never likes anywhere at first. Well, actually, he just doesn't like anywhere no matter how long we're there for. But eventually something is going to have to give. At some point he's going to have to make peace with the fact that we can change the zip code, the weather, and the club we're with, but we can't just change our damage. He's too young to understand that concept, and I don't expect him to. Still, it's frustrating as hell to go through this every place we go. It's selfish and shitty, but I just want him to--just one fucking time--make me feel like I'm doing an okay job instead of destroying his entire world every single day.
"I know, baby," I say evenly. I bend down so we're eye to eye and cup his cheek with my hand. "I know I keep promising things will get better and they haven't yet. And I'm sorry you don't like it here. We'll keep looking for a place you'll like, okay? Okay, baby?"
"Okay."
And just like that, with that one little word, we're walking again. Some people hate the word fine because when most people say they're fine, what they really mean is that things are shit but they're not up for emotionally bleeding all over the place. Ian doesn't say fine. He says okay. And I guess, after traveling in a hot van all day, that okay is better than having a meltdown. I still don't like it, though.
One day, I'm going to make my little boy smile. One day we're going to have our own apartment that I can pay for all by myself. One day we'll buy the brand name foods in the grocery store, and we won't worry about things like not having a phone. One day we're going to live like regular people, and I'll be that mom who cries when her baby walks across the stage at his high school graduation. And one day my boy will tell me he's fine instead of okay, and when he smiles, it won't be to mask how much pain he's in.
One day, I resolve to myself.
Our new life starts today. It starts with me standing on my own two feet and walking us to this motel. It starts with a proper job hunt tomorrow. I'm not sure what I'll do about Ian. He's half a year behind in school because of all the moving and everything else going on. It's a damn miracle that's all he's missed. He needs to catch up, but the year's almost over, and then it'll be summer. I can't leave Ian with just anyone, or he'll flip out, and I can't afford to pay anyone with a license. Plus there's that whole thing about him not being enrolled in school right now. I have enough problems without the law getting all up in my shit. Damn it. This is how I keep ending back up with whatever club is local. Bikers don't give a shit if I have my kid with me at the clubhouse as long as my boy's not in the room while I'm letting them fuck me. Not that I would do that, but the Arizona club's president literally told me that the first time I met him. Sometimes, like right now, it feels too fucking hard to go straight. I have to, though. I want Ian to complain about homework and girls and dumb-ass shit like that. He deserves better, and that means I have to do better. If I want him to stop having nightmares, that means I have to stop putting him in situations that give him those nightmares.
"What's wrong, Mommy?" Ian looks up at me with his big brown eyes narrowed and his lips formed into a pout.
"Sometimes it's hard being a parent," I say.
Thoughtfully, he nods his head and gives my hand a squeeze, declaring, "Sometimes it's hard being a kid, too."
CHAPTER 5
"Okay, and jump!" Ian's got a hold of my pinky, and when I shout for him to jump, he gives it a squeeze. He does this sometimes, holding my pinky instead of my hand. My boy hesitates for a moment as he stares down at the massive puddle in front of us. Sure, it's a big puddle, but the kid's got some ridiculously long legs. I raise an eyebrow, free my pinky, and make a great show of leaping over the puddle. On the other side now, I puff out my chest and put my hands on my hips. With a large, dramatic smile on my face, I stare down at my boy.
"I win!"
"We weren't racing." Ian's eyes are narrowed. One of the best ways I've found to get him to focus on what's going on around us instead of the monsters that haunt him is to give him something to do. Anything, really, and he's usually fine. He likes to keep busy.
"Yes, we were."
We so weren't.
"You're a cheat!"
"Are you calling your mother a cheat?" I snicker and shake my head at him in mock disbelief.
Here's the thing about my boy--he's sweet and loving and sensitive, but he's also mischievous and ornery, and he has a strong sense of justice.