Walls Between Us

16 | a little close

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A M A Y A

"Now remember what I said -no touching Uncle Carter's stuff," I say in a formidable tone to Parker as the elevator slides closer to the 63rd floor of Bell Towers.

"Promise, mommy."

He squeezes my hand tightly as the elevator pings to a stop, the doors sliding open. Parker blinks just like I do, both of us enthralled by the scenic beauty of the space before.

We are in Carter's penthouse - the one where he is staying officially. This is the first time I am visiting him here and the thought of seeing him in such a personal environment makes me feel surprisingly intimate about the relationship between us.

He called me early in the morning to say that he would be working from home today and he needed me to be here. Parker's babysitter took a day off so I had to convince myself to bring him in too.

The thought took a lot of overthinking until I finally let my brain get accustomed to the fact that Carter was Parker's Dad. I can't keep him away from his father. That is so not me. If I keep aside the past between us, I can let Parker have a normal life with both his Mom and Dad.

We step into the wooden flooring of the classic-style penthouse. A wide floor-to-ceiling glass wall that gives a perfect view of LA city's skyline greets us at the front. The walls of the penthouse are painted beige, its beauty complimented by the minimalist grey furniture, and the black couch before the giant wall T.V that completes the view. There are paintings on the wall - quotes and other light decorations along with a statue of some ancient Greek warrior made of white marble which stands in the middle of the hall.

The place screams of a man living here. Or, more likely, men living here.

Dawson turns to us, halfway through changing the sports channel on the T.V. He is dressed in all casuals with a simple white T-shirt and trousers. He rises from the couch when he spots us, flips the T.V off, and walks around to stand beside the statue.

"Miss. Sommers?" he says, then looks below at Parker at my feet.

My son is staring at the ceiling of the penthouse, his very realistic toy guitar clutched in the crook of his arm. His lips are opened in the shape of a huge 'O'.

"Good morning, Dawson," I greet him, smiling at the tall, giant man. "Is Carter up?"

"He's back in the gym down there." He points to a corridor behind him. "Should I call him?"

"No, it's fine. I'll go."

Parker lets go of my hand all of a sudden. I jerk my gaze at him as he runs towards Dawson, lifting his hands in the air when he is near the man.

"Pick me up. Pick me up! I want to touch that," he yells at Dawson, jumping on his little feet like he is desperate for something.

"Parker!" I scold but he doesn't stop.

I am about to make a grab for him when Dawson puts his hand up, stopping me. I retreat, embarrassed at Parker's behavior.

Bold of me to assume he would listen to my warnings

"What do you want, kid?" Dawson asks, placing his hands on his hip.

"I want to touch that!" Parker gestures to a wooden chandelier that hangs above Dawson's head. "Please, pick me up!"

Dawson lets out a guttural laugh. He reaches down and picks Parker up by his arms.

"Careful," I gasp as he swings my son up over his head until Parker's legs are dangling over his broad shoulders.