Not fear of him. Fear for him.
Max, completely unaware of the tension, tugged at Ryder’s pant leg and raised both hands, asking to be picked up. The child’s trust cut through Ryder’s anger more effectively than any threat ever had.
He bent and lifted Max into his arms. The toddler immediately settled against him.
Another taunt came from across the grass. “Looks like the tough guy’s gone soft.”
The old Ryder would have crossed that park without thinking. He would have made sure the teenagers remembered him for years.
But Clare’s hand was still near his arm. Maggie was looking up at him.
Max had his small cheek against Ryder’s shoulder. Ryder forced his fingers to relax.
“They don’t know you,” Clare said quietly. “They don’t know how you’ve helped us. They don’t know how kind you are with the kids.” The teenagers’ laughter echoed behind them as they walked on.
Every word seemed to chip at the new life Ryder had begun to imagine. Gang member.
Criminal. Thug.
No matter how many groceries he carried, how gently he pushed Maggie on the swings, or how often Max fell asleep against his chest, would the world ever see anything except what he had been? Ryder looked down at his tattooed hands.
Hands that had done violence. Hands that lately had learned to build sand castles and tie tiny shoelaces.
The two versions of himself felt impossible to reconcile. Maybe, he thought, the teenagers were only saying out loud what everyone else already believed.
Maybe he would always be someone Clare had to explain. Someone her children would eventually be taught to fear.
Clare’s hand slipped away from his arm as they continued walking. Ryder felt its absence like a physical ache.
The judgment of strangers had never bothered him much before. Now, with Clare and the children in his life, every insult felt like a warning that he did not belong in their world.
The walk back to Clare’s apartment building felt endless. Ryder kept his eyes forward, shoulders rigid, barely responding when Maggie talked about butterflies and the ducks near the pond.
Clare matched his pace without pushing him to speak. At the apartment entrance, Ryder stopped.
“I should go.” His voice sounded rough and clipped, harsher than he intended.
“You could come up for dinner,” Clare offered softly. “I’m making spaghetti. The kids love when you’re there.” Maggie bounced on her toes.
“Please, Mr. Ryder. You do the best monster voices when you read stories.” Max reached toward him from Clare’s arms.
Normally, that gesture would have melted whatever resistance Ryder had. Today it made the pain deeper.
“Not tonight, kid.” Ryder stepped back.
“Got things to do.” Clare’s face fell slightly.
But she nodded. She understood the need for space because she had needed it herself too many times.
“Another time, then.” Ryder turned away.
His boots felt heavy on the pavement. Behind him, Maggie called, “Bye, Mr. Ryder!”
Clare gently shushed her. The late-afternoon sun stretched Ryder’s shadow across the sidewalk as he walked home.