Free The World: According to Graham by Layne Harper Page B

seconds I contemplate skipping my nighttime hygiene, but I swear it’s like I have some sort of neural link with my mother and I hear her reminding me that I’ll get an eye infection and cavities. In my thirties, I still shuffle to the bathroom to perform my nighttime duties just to quiet my mom’s nagging voice in my head.
    Crawling back in bed, I remind myself that I should not lecture my kid so much about hygiene. It’s okay to sleep in your contacts sometimes, isn’t it? You did when you slept with Rachael.
    That just takes me back to my dick asking again why we are in the guest room.
    At some point, I must finally drift off to sleep. Then the dreams come as they have every night since she told me that one plus one was about to equal three.
    Ba . . . boom . . . ba . . . boom . . . My heart thuds against my chest.
    Rachael! Rachael has taken the baby.
    Images of a man who isn’t me holding a black-haired, blue-eyed little boy’s hand race through my dreams just like they did last night and the night before. Every night the dream is different, but the characters haven’t changed. A nameless, faceless man is raising my son, teaching him to play lacrosse, and the dream ends with my little boy not recognizing me when I show up for one of his games.
    Just like all the nights before, I wake up drenched with sweat. The quilt, her scent, seems to be suffocating me. I untangle my legs from the material and lie naked on top of the sheets, letting the cool night air dry my damp skin. I’m panting like a dog after a long run. It’s pathetic really. These dreams must stop.
    It’s like the fog is cleared away or the veil lifted or some other contrived saying that means I’m kicking my own ass. My reasons for concocting this crazy plan become clear to me. I’m not taking some time off from the Sons of Liberty to try to make things right with Rachael for her sake or even our baby’s sake. I’m doing it to save myself. I’m not just betting my career on this move—I’ve gone all in with my soul. Gasping at the realization of just how fucked I am, I ball my hand into a fist and push it into my breastbone. Right now, that horrible dream is my reality if we can’t get our shit straight.
    I roll over and pretend to sleep for a while. I might actually doze a bit, but it’s no use. My mind is racing. Anytime I find sleep, the dream begins again as if it’s looped. I wake myself up and stare at the ceiling again. I’m terrified that she’s going to follow through with her plan to run away to Texas and hide. Maybe the closet was enough to get her to stay.
    I know better. It’s Rachael Early, the most stubborn woman on the planet. It’s going to take more than clothes organization to get her to see life my way.
    It might be easier committing a felony—kidnapping and imprisonment.
    ***
    The opening and shutting of my kitchen cabinets wakes me from my shallow sleep. I stare at the wall next to the bed for a couple of heartbeats, trying to collect myself. I have to remind my brain that I’m in the guest room in my house, and the person clanking around my kitchen is the mother of my child. Before I bolt out of bed and see my Tinker Bell—I call her that only in my head—I take a deep breath and work to restore my heartbeat to something other than a stroke level. This feels like a job interview. If I don’t get “hired” I might as well be fired from my life.
    I slip on some of Jake’s pajama bottoms that I find in the bottom drawer of the dresser, and my glasses. It crosses my mind that I should put on a shirt but I decide that I need to use my advantages where I can. She likes/liked to run her hand over my pecs and stomach. Maybe a reminder of better times?
    Entering the living room, my eyes track to her immediately. She’s sitting on a chair at the kitchen table with a box of crackers in front of her. She has a flour square in her right hand, nibbling on it like she’s a mouse, while her other hand