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When he spoke, Luca was still whispering. “You don’t want kids?”
Conor heard a soft kiss. He imagined Luca placing one on Harper’s shoulder. Luca was always kissing their shoulders or necks, ruffling Harper’s hair, lightly punching Conor on the arm. He’d never been with such a physically affectionate lover. Sometimes it seemed Luca couldn’t stop himself from touching them.
“Oh,” Harper said, more breath than sound. “I didn’t mean that. Of course I do.”
“How many?” Luca asked.
Conor’s breath staggered, but he quickly regained control.
In and out.
In and out.
Harper continued, speaking so softly, Conor was struggling to hear her over the thudding beat of his heart pulsing in his ears.
“I always wanted a sibling, so there’s no way I’d have an only child. Always pictured myself with two or three,” she added. “I’d love to have a boy and a girl, have the experience of raising a son and a daughter.”
“I hope you get that. FYI,” Luca started in a humorous tone. “My mom had to try four times for that daughter. And to add insult to injury, she got two boys on the third attempt.”
Harper let out a breathy laugh as Conor lay there, considering his own mother. Had her third attempt been for a daughter?
He’d never thought about that before. His father was of an old-school mindset, with so much arrogance he likened himself to royalty, constantly boasting to his cigar-and-brandy buddies that he’d gotten his heir and his spare. Conor was never mentioned in that sentiment, and he’d always wondered why. Shouldn’t his dad have said “heir and spares”? Was he his mother’s last-ditch attempt at having a daughter?
“How about you?” Harper whispered to Luca. It was clear his lovers assumed he’d fallen asleep, so they were speaking quietly. “You want kids?”
“Hell yeah. Same as you, actually. A boy and a girl.”
“No big family with five kids?” she asked.
“I love big families. Honestly, I really hope I have twins. There’s nothing like that bond.”
“Sounds wonderful.” Harper shifted, rolling to her side away from Conor, and it fell quiet again.
He didn’t think they were purposely leaving him out of this conversation. In fact, if he chose, he knew he could join in, sharing his own dream for a future family.
He didn’t.
Couldn’t.
Because that wasn’t a dream he’d ever allowed himself.
Probably because his parents hadn’t exactly been the model when it came to happy marriages. And as far as child-rearing, Dad had been borderline abusive.
Conor reconsidered the borderline descriptor. His father had been an abusive asshole. Mom, on the other hand, when she was lucid, was amazing, loving, and attentive.
No. The real reason why he’d never considered marriage and families was because of the ticking time bomb in his head. He’d read countless articles over the years about anxiety attacks and depression frequently going together. Conor wasn’t sure when Mom’s depression had begun, didn’t know if she’d suffered anxiety attacks before the true darkness set in. Depression wasn’t a topic for discussion in his childhood home.
When Mom had one of her “spells,” as Dad called it, he told them to leave her alone and be quiet. The one time Gage asked what was wrong with her, Dad had backhanded him, insisting there was nothing wrong with her.
Russos aren’t weak.
Russos don’t fail.
Russos aren’t gay.
And they sure as shit aren’t mentally ill.
After that, neither he nor his brothers talked about Mom’s depression again. Not with Dad. Not with her. Not even with each other.
