Not because he wants to.
Because I ask him to. Because I need the first meal in the trailer to be me and August. Because I need to tuck my son into a bed I control. Because I need to sit in the quiet afterward and notfill it with a man just because wanting him is easier than feeling everything else.
Derby takes it badly. Meaning he nods, grunts, and looks like someone asked him to leave a limb on the porch.
But he goes.
August and I eat grilled cheese that I don’t burn and tomato soup. He tells me his room needs a court. I tell him every room he enters becomes a court eventually. He accepts that as praise.
At bedtime, he asks again if Derby is coming back.
“Yes,” I say.
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Why not tonight?”
“Because this is our first night here.”
He thinks about that. “But Derby can come tomorrow?”
“If he wants.”
August gives me a look that is pure five-year-old judgment. “He wants.”
I laugh.
After August falls asleep, I sit on the couch with the windows open and listen to Kentucky night sounds. Crickets. Distant motorcycles. Wind in the trees. Somewhere far off, a dog barks. Maybe the Mayor.
The trailer feels strange.
Too quiet.
Too mine.
I touch the tattoo behind my ear.
The skin is still tender.
My crown.
My debt.
My warning.
My reminder.
I’m still sitting there when headlights sweep across the gravel.
My heart jumps before I can stop it.
Not fear.
That is new too.
I stand and go to the door, looking through the small window.