Owen's Best Intentions

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LILAH HAD SPENT most of the day trying to pretend she wasn’t worried Owen would run away with Ben just to make her suffer through an equal amount of time without him. She came home early, hoping they would, as well.

No such luck.

After she wandered through the empty rooms of her home for an hour, she started Ben’s favorite spaghetti sauce for dinner. It was Owen’s favorite, too, but she wouldn’t be admitting she remembered that.

The second they opened the front door, she heard Ben’s exaggerated sniffing.

“Spaghetti,” he said, then, “No, Own. Let me go.”

Her pulse beat a little faster, but she refused to rush out to see what was going on. Fear for her son was part of loving him. Maybe it wouldn’t have been if she’d had a different childhood, but she couldn’t help being the mom her life had made her. She knew all too well how easily a child could get hurt, despite a careful parent’s best intentions. But she didn’t want Ben to learn her kind of fear.

“Can I help you with your coat first?” she heard Owen ask her son.

Lilah went to the hall in time to see Owen on his knees, peeling Ben out of his coat and mitts and hat. He barely got the coat off before Ben hurtled toward the kitchen, brandishing a thick piece of drawing paper.

“Mommy, this is my painting. Miss Katie put it on the wall, but she took it off so Owen could help me bring it home.”

Lilah swung Ben onto her hip and took the paper from him. Ben had drawn the two of them in front of their house. The house had big windows, like wide, happy eyes. She and Ben were both smiling stick figures with clothing.

The psychologist who’d cared for her would have described it as a happy drawing by a well-adjusted child. Lilah smiled to herself as she looked it over, until she noticed the large brown long-haired dog with huge eyes and sharp teeth.

“A pup,” she said. Ben believed if he kept inserting a dog into his life, she’d give in and let him have one.

“He’s hungry.” Ben tapped the paper twice as Lilah hugged him, walking toward the kitchen. “I would feed him,” he said. “All by myself.”

She didn’t look back at Owen. She didn’t want him to see how the day had unsettled her.

“Your pretend dog can sit at the table with us.” She kissed the top of Ben’s head, breathing in his scent because she’d been starved for the sight of him, the sound of his voice, the feel of his wriggling body in her arms. She was almost tempted to give in on the dog front.

Anything to make sure he loved her best.

She wasn’t going to be good at sharing her son. Down the hall, the closet door closed. Owen finally followed them into the kitchen, brushing his own hair with both hands. The static made his longish curls both stand up and cling to his face.

“He really wants a dog,” he said.

“For a long time.” She cuddled Ben, who stopped struggling and folded his arms between his body and hers, and buried his head beneath her chin. He always leaned into her like that. She wanted to hug him even harder.

“Own’s eating with us?”

“I think so.” Owen obviously hadn’t managed to tell Ben he was his father today.

“I’d like to,” Owen said, and his face, pleading despite the fact he had the whip hand, startled Lilah with his resemblance to her son. “Spaghetti. Smells amazing, Lilah.”

“It’s Ben’s favorite,” she said, defensive because she still didn’t want him to know she’d remembered.

“Can we help you with anything?” Owen asked.

She wanted to just sit and hold her son. Instead, she set him down and went back to the kitchen. “Nothing left to do,” she said. “I’ve set the table and made the salad and bread. We’re ready to eat. You and Ben should wash up.”

“Aww, Mom.” But Ben looked at Owen and led the way to the bathroom. Their splashing and laughter unsettled Lilah even more. Her boy had missed having a man in his life. He was already bonding with Owen, and she dreaded the day she’d have to leave them together at the airport, or even just at Owen’s car, and come home without her son for days or weeks.

The thought sent her back to the kitchen, where she added pasta to the pot of boiling water on the stove. She poured ice water in glasses, set the pitcher in the center of the table and tried to look self-assured.

“You didn’t dry those hands,” Owen was saying as he danced Ben back into the kitchen with a towel. He drew Ben to the sink and dried his little fingers and dripping-wet palms.

“Thanks.” Ben scrambled into his seat at the table.

Lilah made his salad plate and added a slice of garlic bread and served it to him. To her surprise, Owen dished out salad for her and put some on his own plate, and then set them both on the table.

“The pasta isn’t ready yet,” she said as he peered into the pot of boiling water.

He came back to join them at the table. Ben waited until Owen lifted his fork. They chewed as one man. Lilah closed her eyes, not wanting to see them together.

“You like me, Own.”

Lilah jerked in her chair at the head of the table. He’d also inherited his father’s habit of speaking bluntly.

“I do like you, Ben. You know why?”

Ben had created the most natural opening for Owen to tell him about himself. Lilah dropped her fork and slid her hands beneath the table, twisting them together.

“Because I’m lovable.” Ben gripped his fork like a spear. “Right, Mom?”

“Extremely right,” she said, her insides shattering. Her son was about to gain a second loyalty that would last a lifetime.

“You are lovable,” Owen said, “but I’d care for you, no matter what, because you’re my little boy.”

The fork stopped in midair, pointing across the table at Owen’s face. “Huh?”

Owen’s confidence didn’t waver. It had to be an act, but it was convincing. He looked happy, not anxious about how Ben was going to react. She felt sick.

“You are my son,” Owen said. “I’m your dad.”

“I don’t have a daddy. Mommy says so.”

Owen still didn’t falter. He gazed at Ben’s face with a loving expression of reassurance. “Just this once your mom made a mistake. I am your dad, and I always will be.”

“But I’m a big boy now. I didn’t see you when I was a baby.”

Lilah’s eyes burned as her son seemed to panic. She reached for his hand, trying to make it seem as if this situation only rated a little bit of comfort, and she wasn’t scared. She couldn’t help feeling guilty.

She’d love to believe she hadn’t set up this well of pain for her child the moment Owen walked away from rehab.

“Where’s he been, Mommy?”

“Owen’s been at his house. He didn’t know about you.”