Feisty Red (Three Chicks Brewery #2) - Stacey Kennedy Page 0,34
to Mason and stared again into those eyes that looked so much like his mother’s and realized all this was simple. The truth was good, felt good, and felt right. Sullivan sat back next to Mason. “Yeah, buddy, I am.”
Mason smiled. “Thought so.”
Clara came over and knelt next to the bed. “You’re so clever, sweetie.” She rustled up his hair. “How did you know?”
“Sullian brought you flowers,” Mason explained. “Mommies and Daddies do that.”
Clara’s smile warmed. “They sure do. You’re such a smart cookie.” She tickled Mason’s side, sending him into a fit of laughter.
When that laughter died, Mason looked directly at Sullivan. “Why were you gone?”
Sullivan hesitated, unsure how to answer.
In that slight pause, Clara interjected, “Remember how we talk sometimes about how people’s mental health is important?”
“Yeah,” Mason said with a nod.
Clara brushed the hair back from Mason’s face, her voice as gentle as ever. “Sullivan needed help with his mental health before he could be the best dad to you.”
“Oh,” Mason said then set those clever eyes on Sullivan. “But you’re okay now?”
Sullivan barely got air into his chest but managed, “I’m getting better day by day.” Of course, the answers were far more complicated, and when older, Mason was owed those answers, but for now, this explanation seemed right. Of course Clara knew how to handle all this. An unexpected release of tension hit as he added, “And I’d really like to be in your life now, if you’re okay with that.”
Mason jumped up and threw his arms around Sullivan, catching him by surprise. Until he remembered what a hug like this felt like. A hug so honest and sweet and loving. He tightened his arms around Mason when Mason said, “I can’t wait to tell everyone at school that my dad is a professional baseball player.”
Sullivan laughed and hugged him tighter for as long as he’d allow.
Which wasn’t long. Mason wiggled out of his arms, climbing back into the bed, and his smile lit up the room. “Snug as a bug in a rug,” he told Sullivan.
Sullivan arched a brow. “Snug as a bug in a rug?”
“That’s how you tuck me in,” Mason explained, digging his fingers in around his legs. “Snug as a bug in a rug.”
Sullivan breathed past the hit to his chest as the memory of his mother doing that to him at bedtime slid into his mind. Something Clara knew very well. He’d shared that memory of his mother with her once. And her soft smile told him that’s exactly why she’d kept the ritual going. “You’re right. I can’t forget that.” Sullivan rose, tucking Mason in tight. “Snug as a bug in a rug.”
Mason grinned. “All tight?”
“All tight.” Sullivan smiled, feeling heat radiating through his chest.
Once Sullivan backed away, Clara sidled next to the bed and kissed Mason’s forehead. “Love you, buddy. If you’ve got any more questions for either Sullivan or me, just ask them, okay?”
Mason yawned. “Okay.”
Sullivan turned off the lamp, remembering back to all the times his mother would blow him a kiss before shutting the door close.
When he followed Clara out into the hall, she adjusted the door and said, “You have to leave the door open a little. The light from the hallway kills the monsters.”
He chuckled. “Safety first.”
“Exactly,” she said and gestured down the stairs. “I’ve got drinks for us outside on the porch.”
“I bet we both could use one.”
She agreed with a nod, and he followed her down the steps then out into the warm night, the porch light spilling over them. She sat first on the porch swing and he followed, grabbing his beer that sat next to her wine. A moment passed before he spoke. “I think that went well.”
She finished her sip of wine and nodded. “It did. Kids are amazingly resilient. I’m sure he’ll have a thousand more questions, but at this age, everything is very simple like you saw. He thinks you’re cool, and I have no doubt he’ll like telling people he has a dad. As much as Amelia and Maisie have tried to fill that role, there is no replacing a father’s role in a child’s life.”
He nodded. All the years Sullivan had missed, all that time. He glanced down at his boots he’d left on the porch planks. Boots that were so different from the fancy shoes he wore when he went out in Boston. He’d never realized how much he missed this. The countryside. The dirty boots. The quiet nights on the porch. “Now