Chapter Three
"Alright then," drew Sawyer. "Pick up your sand toys and let's get moving."
"You pick them up," insisted Jimmy, standing up and leaving the wooden pail and shovel and shell molds in the sand.
"Excuse me?" Sawyer raised a blondish brown eyebrow. "What'd you just say to me?"
"I said you pick them up. I can't."
"And why the hell can't you?"
Jimmy shrugged, and his little tanned, freckled shoulders reached almost to his ears. "I have allergies."
"Allergies to what? To doing what you're told? Now pick up those toys or I'm going to show you the back of my … " the left side of Sawyer's lips froze and then twitched into speech again, "time-out stool where I'll make you sit for five minutes while you think deep thoughts about your feelings and why you feel you have to be such a smart –"
"Too late," Kate said. "I heard the first part already."
"You know full well I'd never really lay a hand on him."
"I know, but idle threats are so effective, aren't they? And watch your language around him, why don't you?" She bent down in the sand and began to pick up the shovel and bucket.
"Hey!" Sawyer ripped the shovel from her hand and threw it back on the ground. "Let him do that himself. Don't you want him to learn a little self-reliance? Isn't that what a good father's supposed to teach his son?"
Kate put her hands on her hips. "Maybe if you didn't lose your cool almost every time you tried to teach –"
"Maybe if you didn't coddle him and walk around him and pick up after him like you were his –"
Little Jimmy's light blue eyes looked up at his father's snarling mouth. Sawyer caught the boy's watching eyes and saw the noiseless lips pressed tight like Kate's when she was hurt or annoyed. He noticed the rigid pose of his son's delicate frame as he stood on the sand, his little top teeth crushing against his little bottom teeth, the way Sawyer's own did when he was mad.
"Jimmy," Sawyer said, the edge in his voice now mostly eroded, "why don't you help your mother pick up your toys now."
"Alright."
Jimmy picked up the shells and put them in the bucket Kate held down to him. Sawyer watched her stroke his light brown hair as he dropped them in.
The kid had a sweat deal, Sawyer thought. He could rant and rave all he wanted, stomp his little feet on the sand, whine on and off again for hours, but, at the end of the day, every day, without condition, Kate would still reach out that hand, as dependably as the sun rises and sets, and gently stroke his bent little head with affection.
"I'll drop him off at Sun's for his playdate with Min," Kate said, "and then I'll meet you and Sayid."
Sawyer nodded and patted his son on one shoulder. "Yeah," he said. "Okay, yeah." He took a step back and turned on his heels. "See you in court, Freckles."