I'm skeptical, but I'm already up and out of bed. I eye Jim as he leans down and scoops my sleeping boy into his arms. The sight of this man cradling my kid like he weighs nothing shuts down my fears. Jim's not like the rest of them. He's not Carlo or Ian's father. He's not the others. He's not perfect, for sure, but maybe he could just be perfect for us. If he wanted me, that is. Ian might not say much about Jim, but he talks about Ryan all the time. Those two are thick as thieves. And this right here? My kid sleeping through a man picking him up means a lot. For the kid who used to go days without sleep and could only eat certain color foods and who had a panic attack every single day to trust Jim enough that he can fall asleep in his arms does me in.
When Jim turns toward the door, I scramble to grab a bra and shove it in the pocket of the hoodie I grab and then slip on a pair of flip flops and follow him to the door. He stops, and I wait behind him awkwardly until he raises an eyebrow and nods at the closed door. I look at my sleeping boy in his arms, who isn't exactly small, and quickly move to open it. Jim walks through the open door and effortlessly carries my boy down the flight of stairs to the sidewalk below. He wastes no time getting Ian tucked safely into the minivan.
I pause a moment before shutting and locking the door behind me, still having no clue what the hell is going on. Jim seemed so earnest that I didn't have the heart to send him away. So without any argument, I make my way down the stairs and into the front passenger seat of the minivan. We ride in silence away from Fort Bragg's small downtown and through one street after another. The drive is probably not nearly as long as it feels, in all honesty. My brain is just not waking up. When I first heard Jim's voice behind me, I felt a jolt of energy that has since worn off in favor of the prospect of taking a nap. After only a few blocks away from Main Street, my eyelids grow heavy and start to force my eyes to close. We could be going anywhere and doing anything, so I need to stay alert, but I can't help my body's inability to muster up the energy to do so.
"No napping for you." Jim's voice laughs from the driver's seat and cuts the engine. "Come on inside before I lose those pretty eyes."
Somehow, through the will of God himself, I manage to pry my eyes open. We're parked in the narrow drive of a small bungalow in town. It's nothing special, with few accents to its exterior, and painted in a dull and fading gray. The lawn is freshly mowed, but the flower beds are empty save for the dirt-mud mix that should be housing the roots of brightly colored flowers. I know the color of the paint despite the time of night and that the flower beds should be filled because this isn't just any cute little bungalow in town. It's Jim's bungalow. For a moment, I don't understand why we're here, but then I realize that of course we'd be here. Ryan isn't in the car with us, and wherever we're going, we need to take him, too. My brain swims with a hundred possibilities. Everything from worrying about Jim leaving a sleeping boy home alone--especially that sleeping boy--to what's wrong, and how much danger we're in. I can't even keep up with my own damn thoughts and fears.
"Inside," he says again, this time louder. His voice carries enough that Ian stirs in the backseat. When I don't get moving, Jim goes about extracting himself from the vehicle and then scooping Ian up and walking toward the front door. My brain kicks into gear, and I chase after him, knowing the drill. But he doesn't need me. The front door swings open and out steps Rage. Jim wastes no time slipping into the house with my boy.
Standing on the stoop, Rage stares me down. His black beard has gray streaks and is tamed by a messy braid that he let Nicole try on him. I bite my lip at the memory of this big, mean man letting a tiny little girl braid his beard. Rage has a soft side, and I didn't know it until today. Knowing this about him now, I give him a soft smile and point to the beard. He huffs, a near snarl forming on his lips.
"You're a softie, George Stone."
"Used to like you," he says with a grunt. I close the distance between us and let my smile take over my face. I yawn halfway through, but even the sleepiness can't steal this moment from me. Rage just walks past me and heads for the Harley that I now see is parked on the street.
"You still like me," I say boldly. I don't know that he really likes anyone except for his wife. He must like Sylvia, because she has that huge-ass closet in the cabin he built for their retirement. He probably likes Jim well enough, since the man made it through childhood and puberty to live until thirty and meet me. I'm thinking he's got to love Ryan, because I don't know a soul alive who wouldn't fall in love with that little punk. But Sylvia and I are tight, and she likes me, so I'm thinking Rage does, too. Or at least that's what I'm choosing to tell myself.
"We'll see."