I glance at my watch. Three minutes and counting.

“Mommy,” my son mumbles.

“Yes, Evan?”

“Love you.”

“I love you, too, honey.”

“Sorry.”

“What’s that, honey?”

“This morning. Didn’t hurt him. Wouldn’t hurt him. Just wanted … a friend. Nobody likes me. Not even Daddy.”

I don’t say anything, just brush his cheek and watch his thick lashes flutter close. I want to tell him it’ll be okay. I want to tell him we’ll go to the park another day. I want to tell him he’ll make new friends and that his father still loves him.

Instead, I slip into the hallway, and lock my son in his room.

Doorbell rings.

A last nervous sweep of my hand through my hair, then I head downstairs.

My lover waits on the doorstep. He’s dressed casually, white T-shirt stretched over his toned chest. His hair curls damply against the back of his neck. He smells of soap and sunshine, and I want to take a moment to breathe him in. Youth, freedom, carefree days.

He smells of what I’ve lost, and some days I want him for that as much as anything.

“I have only an hour,” he announces. I’m not surprised. In the beginning, he lingered. We shared foreplay, pillow talk, post-coital glow. Then something shifted. He became less charming, more demanding, while our interludes became less romantic, more transactional.

I can feel the edginess in him now. He’ll be rough again, even abusive. The woman I used to be would’ve sent him home.

Now I open my door wider and let him into my home.

“Evan?” he checks. Have to give him credit for that. We met because of Evan. One good thing to come from this mess, I used to think. I’m not as sure anymore.

“Asleep,” I say.

“Locked in?”

“We won’t be interrupted.”

He gets a smile that I already feel between my legs. He leads me to the family room, his callused fingers wrapped tightly around my wrist.

At the last second, I balk. Looking for, wanting …

“What about my surprise?” I hear myself ask.

“It’s not Monday,” he says, leading me toward the sofa.

“Two days. Close enough.”

“Impatient?” He slants me a look. It is both flirtatious and dangerous. There are shadows in his eyes. Why have I never noticed that before? His blue eyes, once so clear, are now as dark as midnight. The phantom, I think. The phantom just won’t leave me the fuck alone.

Then I don’t want to think anymore. I don’t want to know.

He pulls me to the sofa, where minutes before my son slumped in a semi-catatonic state. Except now I’m the one bending over the arm of the sofa, while male hands raise my skirt, palm my ass, and lower a zipper behind me.