Derby rubs a hand over his jaw. “That he starts expecting me to be there.”
The room stills.
I swallow. “And you won’t be?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“I don’t know.” His voice roughens. “That’s the problem.”
His words echo my own from earlier, and for once, I feel less alone inside the confusion.
“I don’t want him hurt,” Derby says.
“I know.”
His gaze comes back to me. “You don’t know everything.”
“No.”
“I ain’t father material.”
I should agree, or deflect, or remind him no one asked him to be August’s father.
Instead, I think of him crouched over the shoelaces. The fort. The sandwich. The way he told August no monsters were inside.
“Maybe not,” I say. “But you were decent to him when he needed decent.”
Derby looks away.
“That matters,” I add.
“It shouldn’t matter too much.”
“But it does.”
His jaw tightens.
There is something there. Something old and sore. A story he isn’t ready to hand over.
I don’t reach for it.
Not tonight.
Tonight we both have too many open wounds on the table.
“What about us?” I ask before I lose my nerve.
His eyes return to mine.
The room warms.
Or maybe I do.
“There is no us,” he says.
The words should hurt less.