Mind Games

—JAMES GRAHAM

Chapter Twenty-one

He’d put it off as long as possible, but if they stayed—more and more likely—he had to register Braydon for preschool.

His boy needed that structure, more friends, and, like it or not, that separation.

Telling himself he’d have the glory of a few hours without interruption, to work, to shower in peace, even to scratch his own balls, didn’t help a lot.

But since his job meant doing what was best for Bray, he’d do his job.

He still had a month before the bus—he didn’t know if there’d be a bus—would pick his baby up, swallow his baby up, take his baby away.

“Jesus, Tyler, be a man.”

He had a preview of what was to come, as Bray had a playdate with Lucas and Rolan at Rolan’s house. He had two hours in an empty house, and couldn’t figure out what to do with it.

He could work—and should. Or finish his now half-completed library with office. Or do the laundry he’d put off.

The problem? Too many ors. Times like these, he admitted to wondering how he’d thought he could pull off a summer here, much less for good. Or, his current fallback, till Christmas.

He’d been decisive once, he thought as he wandered the too-quiet, too-empty house. Then came Braydon. Now everything he did or didn’t do had to factor in a little boy.

He wouldn’t change that, not for a second, not for the world, for the damn multiverse. But dear Christ, he wished he could find that decisiveness again.

Not just Bray, he admitted. But the way Bray came to be. Add his family, who always looked as if—in their eyes—he was about to make another major mistake.

Hadn’t part of his coming here, for the summer at least, been partially because they’d insisted he’d be making a major mistake?

“Maybe,” he muttered. “Maybe. But it wasn’t a mistake.”

He picked up a photo he’d framed, one he’d taken of Bray coming down the slide, Bunk the Giant Dog waiting at the bottom.

“No, not a mistake.”

So why was he so damn restless?

Maybe too much thinking about the woman up the lane, who could equal a major mistake.

He wanted her—no surprise there. He was a straight, single man and she was beautiful, smart, interesting, and kind with it. She had real affection for his son. Not the put-on sort. He’d learned quick how to spot that sort.

And goddamn, he missed sex.

She wanted him back, and that came in handy.

But what if they moved in that direction and it didn’t work out? Did they just go back to: Hi, neighbor? Did they ignore each other?

Would she ignore Bray and hurt his feelings, as he had real affection for her, for her family?

Factor in all that.

When his phone rang, he yanked it out of his pocket, and when he saw his manager’s name, answered as if he’d been tossed a lifeline in a choppy sea.

“Talk to me. I’m going crazy talking to myself.”

He paced, listened, responded. And felt Tyler Brennan, the musician, the songwriter, take a solid hold again.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good with all that. Like I said, I’ve got two more I’m fine-tuning, and another I’m just starting to work on. I think so, too. Being here this summer’s given me space.”