And freedom, I’ve come to learn, is a feeling that often gets taken for granted.

He comes to a stop and when I open my eyes I’m face to face with the garage door. “Again?” he asks, his breath warm against my ear.

“Yes,” I whisper, and then clear my throat so I can actually speak. “Please.”

He doesn’t drop his arms as he pushes us backwards and does his best to turn us around while I’m still on the board. “Ready?”

“Yes.”

He repeats this a few times, going back and forth up and down the driveway, and I know this isn’t what he had in mind when he said he planned on skating but I don’t want to ask him to stop. I want to keep feeling this—this free—for as long as he’ll let me.

“You want to keep going?”

I nod.

“All right. I just need to rest my arms for a second.”

“Sorry.” I release my death grip on his arms and look down at my feet.

After a moment, his arms are back in place and I settle my hands on them, but they’re not on his wrist anymore, they’re closer to his elbows and before I can work out why, I feel his front pressed against my back and his breath against my cheek, causing me to hold in my own. “Becca?” he asks.

“Yes?”

“I really like it when you talk to me.” Before I can respond we’re moving again. “Ready?” he asks, and I have no idea what he means, not until my hands are no longer touching him.

My eyes snap open. “What the—” Something catches on the wheels and then next thing I know, I’m landing on all fours, my hands and knees scraping on the concrete.

“Holy shit!” Josh yells, and I look up just in time to see him squatting in front of me. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have let you go. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

He gently brushes off my knees, his brows bunched while he inspects them. “You didn’t break skin. That’s good.” He looks up, the concern in his eyes evident. “Palms?” he asks, his hands out waiting.

I show him my palms and he pouts. “You got a little booboo,” he says, but I’m too busy staring at him to know what he’s talking about. “I’m sorry.” His eyes flick to mine quickly before returning to my palms. Slowly, he lifts my hand—just as slowly as his mouth lowers.

I suck in a breath.

Hold it.

And then I wait.

When his lips press softly against my skin, kissing it lightly, I try to release the breath.

Try.

“All better, right?”

I open my eyes to see him watching me, a half smile pulling at his lips. “Kisses make all booboos better.”

Shit, he’s cute.

My grandmother’s car pulls up to the curb and she steps out and walks up to the house, eyeing Josh’s car suspiciously. But not as suspiciously as when she sees us sitting in the middle of the driveway.

After claiming my hand back, I finally exhale. “Thank you,” I tell him, standing up. “Bye.” I practically run into the house and go to my room so I can settle the beating of my heart, because I sure as hell can’t do that with Josh around. I throw myself on the bed and look down at my hands just as my grandmother enters my room.

“You let him touch you?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“How was it?”

“His hands are rough.”

“Well, he uses them every day and he works hard.”

I sit on the edge of my bed and look up at her. “But they’re gentle.”

She smiles warmly.

“And safe. His touch is safe.”

6

-Joshua-

You know when you’re in middle school and you have a crush on a girl and you make up reasons to try to get her to notice you? You walk past her for absolutely no legit reason or say something funny when she’s in earshot hoping she’ll hear you and think you’re hilarious? Or, like, you find ways to sniff her hair?

Not that I did that.

I’m just saying.

Anyway, that’s pretty much me right now. Normally when I didn’t have Tommy, I’d street skate for hours and when it got dark and I knew the place would be empty, I’d hit up the skate park. Instead, I’m doing lame ass tricks on the driveway, hoping she’ll notice me and come back out. I almost knocked on her door, but what would I say? Hi. Can Becca come out and play?

I see her, though, standing at her window watching me. I don’t let her know I see her—that means she’ll know I’m watching her just as much as she’s watching me. Plus, I don’t want to give her a reason to stop.

I laugh at myself and drop my foot on the ground, wondering why the hell a twenty-year-old guy is spending his rare free time skating in the driveway trying to impress some girl. Shaking my head¸ I look at her window for the hundredth time in the past four hours. She’s still there and I still have no idea what she’s waiting for.

She let me touch her. That has to mean something. Right?

I pick up my board and go back to my apartment where I spend the rest of the night alone and lonely because, in my case, they’re two different things. And sometimes that loneliness makes me do or think stupid things. Like how I never knew that Chazarae even had a granddaughter, or any kids at all. And then I wonder if I’m a bad person for never caring or asking about her life before. Then I think about my parents—and wonder if they’ve ever met someone who’s surprised when they find out that they have a son and a grandson. And then I do something that puts stupid on an entirely new level. I think about Natalie—something I rarely let myself do. And I wonder if she’s happy—if turning her back on us made her happy. Almost three years gone and she’s never once asked about her son. I wonder if she’s just as selfish as she was back then. Or selfless maybe. Because in her case, she could be both. I just don’t know which one. And I think that’s what bothers me the most—not knowing why she left.

★★★

I call Robby as soon as I wake up and shower the next morning because I’m sick of the silence and I don’t know what to do with myself.

“Are you sure?” he asks, “We don’t mind having him until after lunch.”

“Yeah. I forgot I had plans with him,” I lie.

I grab my board and go back to skating in the driveway, waiting for them to show up. A half hour later they pull in and as soon as Tommy’s free from his seat he jumps out of their car and right into my arms. And all my other thoughts, feelings and questions become completely insignificant. “I missed you, buddy,” I tell him.

“Me too, Daddy,” he says quietly, squeezing my neck.

Robby walks over with Tommy’s backpack and hands it to me. “You good?”

I pretend to focus on brushing Tommy’s hair aside so I don’t have to look at Robby and, hopefully, he won’t be able to read me. “Uh huh. Thanks a lot for bringing him back.”

“He hasn’t had his morning snack,” Robby calls out as I climb the stairs up to my apartment.

“I’ll take care of it. Thanks again.”

After putting the bowl of fruit on the counter in front of Tommy, I ask, “Did you want to spend the money you earned? We could hit up the toy store and see what they got for you?”