He Took Me

3.

Franky waits in the corner, watching my son and me. It's pissing me the fuck off but then again I know where she's coming from. Franky is...the love I have for her is unexplainable. In a world of hate, Franky showed me I was cable of being loved and having hope. She knows I care about her but that didn't stop me from hurting her. Now she's scared I'll hurt our son.

I won't hurt him. I can't. I would never forgive myself. I still can't forgive myself for what I did to Franky.

Franky's picking at her nails and her leg is shaking anxiously.

"What's wrong?" I finally ask her. Boris is on my lap, he has barely said a word.

"He's nervous," she says.

"What? No, he's fine. He's with his father." I look down at him. His usual blank face is now a strong frown. "Hey, what's wrong?" I ask him. He shrugs, and I look up at Franky. Did I do this to him?

"He doesn't play with his toys," she explains, rising from the bed and walking over to us. She leans down and takes my son from me.

I ball my fist. "Franky," I jump to my feet and follow her out of the room. "Give me him." I've held him twice and she had him for three years, it's not fair. He looks at me, over his mother's shoulder and I grow more impatient. I want to yell at her to give me but I'll scare him.

"Franky, please," I beg.

We enter the small living room and she places him on the couch. I reach for him but she pushes me back. I swallow a snarl. "Here," she hands him a baby's book from the coffee table. He takes it from her.

He's so quiet. Is there something wrong?

Franky starts pushes me towards the kitchen. I scowl at her. I want to be with my son. But I give in and move to the kitchen. "He's a little too young to be reading," I say.

"He likes looking at the words. He is your child," she hisses.

I lean into the counter and fold my arms over my chest. "We can't leave him in there by himself."

"He's fine."

"Is there...is there something wrong with him?" She scoffs at my question. "He's too quiet and barely-"

"There is nothing wrong with our child," she spits with venom.

"I just meet him today, I wasn't a father two hours ago." My chest burns at the reminder. "Forgive me if I don't know anything about him. I don't...I don't even know his birthday," I whisper in pain.

"March eleven," she softens. "And he only plays with his toys when something's wrong."

All I've seen is him play with toys.

"He just needs time," she tries to comfort me.

I sigh. I'm forty-five and by the end of the year, I'll be forty-six. I'm in good shape but time continues to slip from me. My son is three and already he's mine, he's already pushing me away. I feel like crying again.

"Boris?" She whispers, and I lose control.

I grab her by her head and kiss her. For so long Franky has been my solution, she always will be. I find comfort when she holds me, kisses me, looks at me. It's wrong and unhealthy but I don't give a fuck. Franky will always be my light in my dark world.

My pain and anger dissolves when she kisses me back. I've missed her taste. Her tongue battles with mine and I can't help but moan. It's like no time has passed, our mouths move perfectly together.

I made the mistake when I spin us around and pushed her into the counter. She pulls away. I try to rest my forehead on her but she looks down. I breathe into her hair while she breathes on my chest. My heart is pounding.