“Okay. Can we get pizza? Mom only lets me have it on special occasions. I think this is a special occasion, don’t you?”
I have to swallow hard, fighting back the tears that burn at the edges. Goddamn right, this is a special occasion.
When I trust my voice won’t crack, I manage a smile. “Absolutely. Let’s get a pizza.”
We clumsily, but safely, get the hot pie out, make sure the oven is off, and grab his backpack. I run through everything to make sure I'm not forgetting anything.
"Okay, buddy, let's get some pizza!"
"Yeah!" He's through the door before I can catch up.
In the truck, he sits low in the passenger seat, buckled tight, the ball wedged between us. It’s not ideal without a booster, but it’s a five-minute drive and I’m white-knuckling the wheel like we’re crossing state lines.
At Starlight Pies & Skies, he perches on the edge of the red vinyl booth, swinging his legs as he clutches the ball like it’s another dinner guest. His eyes light up when the pepperoni pizza hits the table.
“This is the best day ever,” he declares, sauce already smeared at the corner of his mouth.
I can’t help but laugh at the sweet innocence. If I don't laugh, I might cry out of emotion. “Glad I could make the cut.”
We eat slice after slice, his chatter jumping from dinosaurs to soccer drills to whether pineapple on pizza is “gross or genius.”
I mostly listen, soaking in the rhythm of him. The way he tilts his head when he’s curious—my tilt. The way he grins wide, unguarded—his mother’s grin.
Halfway through another slice, my phone dings. It’s Janie.
Done here. I can swing by to grab him.
My chest tightens as I look across the booth at Beckett, cheeks puffed with pizza, ball cradled in his lap. I'm not ready for this father-son date to end.
I type back before I can second-guess it.
Don’t worry. We’ll finish up dinner, and then I’ll bring him home. If that's okay?
After sending it I have to wonder to myself if I should ask if it's okay, or demand it so. She doesn't get to dictate everything.
But she does. She's his mother. I may be the sperm donor, but he doesn't know me as his father. The law doesn't recognize me as his father. Other than Janie, his entire family has no idea I'm his father.
Once we finish and I pay the bill, there is no more extending this. It's time to take him home. His home.
"You ready to go, Bud?"
Beckett keeps chattering the entire drive, his words tumbling over each other like loose marbles. I can’t stop the smile tugging at my lips. My chest aches with pride, with loss. With the certainty that one day, this won’t be enough.
This brilliant, energetic boy is mine, my blood, my son, yet I'm "Blake's best friend" to him. A friendly stranger who showed up at soccer practice, at the carnival, who takes him to get pizza on a regular Wednesday night.
The porch light glows warm against the darkening sky as I pull into Janie's driveway. Cicadas hum their evening chorus, the sound washing over us as I help Beckett from his seat.
"Did you have fun today?" I ask, reaching for his backpack.
He nods vigorously. "Can we practice our kicks together, again? I think you are really good at soccer."
Something shifts inside me. He looks up to me. "I'd like that."
We climb the steps together, his small hand findingmine naturally. I freeze at the contact, then carefully curl my fingers around his tiny hand.
The front door swings open before we reach it. Janie stands in the doorway, backlit by the hall light. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders, and her eyes, those same eyes she gave our son, find mine immediately.
For the first time since all of this, I don't look away.