I help August into pajamas. He insists Blue Rex needs to sleep under the blanket but with his head out so he can breathe. I brush his teeth with the new toothbrush. I tuck him in. He grabs my sleeve before I can move away.
“You’re staying?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Derby too?”
I pause.
“In the house,” I say carefully.
“On the couch?”
“Yes.”
“He’s big for the couch.”
“I know.”
“Maybe he can sleep on the floor.”
I smile. “I’ll suggest that.”
August’s eyes are heavy. “Is he your boyfriend?”
The question punches the breath out of me.
I sit frozen on the edge of the bed.
From the hallway, something creaks. Derby, probably.
Listening? No.
Maybe.
The house is small.
“He’s helping us,” I say.
August frowns, trying to make that fit into the categories he understands. “Like Sophie?”
“Yes.”
“But different.”
My heart beats hard.
“Yes,” I whisper. “Different.”
“Is daddy coming here?”
“No.”
“You promise?”
There are promises mothers make because they know they are true, and promises they make because a child needs to sleep.
I choose the second kind and pray the first catches up.