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So do I.
I’ll get her. I pry Sulli away from her fucking adventure, holding her in my arms. When she looks at me, I make a scrunched face.
Sulli tries to mimic me, brows attempting to bunch.
This is my fucking baby. I still can’t believe it, not even eleven-months in.
Daisy stands up. “Sullivan Minnie Meadows, climber extraordinaire.” She nuzzles Sulli’s nose with her own.
I’d never want a fucking baby with anyone but Daisy.
My wife scans the first floor. “Hey, look, we’re pretty good at party-planning.”
We wound gold streamers around our staircase banisters, and we blew up a few black and gold balloons. We bought most of the decorations from the New Year’s Eve themed aisle, so it looks less like a birthday party. Daisy and I thought Connor would like that. We’re lucky he’s even going to show up. Ever since his twenty-seventh birthday party, he’s let us actually celebrate with him, and he doesn’t fly off to some other country anymore.
The decoration that just won’t stop fucking giving: a cardboard cutout of Connor Cobalt.
I’m serious.
A life-sized version of Connor—with his conceited grin, single arched brow, tailored suit, and a photoshopped crown on his wavy hair—stands a few feet from the front door. It’ll either severely piss him off or amuse him.
Either one is fucking fine with me.
“Ten bucks he throws himself into the trash,” Daisy says.
I hold Sulli with one arm. “Fuck no. He wouldn’t defile a picture of himself.”
Daisy tilts her head. “I think he might show up, look around impassively, and just walk right out the door.” I see a pang of disappointment behind her green eyes.
“He won’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I know where he fucking lives,” I snap. I’m not throwing him a party just so he can walk on out. No fucking way.
Daisy twists the ties of her white sweatshirt that says: sunshine mixed with a little hurricane. “You know, you’re the only two guys that have ever understood me. Like really gotten to know me in a way that no one else has, and I’m not saying that I like Connor the same way that I like you. Obviously.”
“I fucking hope not.”
She tries to hide a smile. I wish she wouldn’t hide it, even for my sake.
“You can fucking smile, sweetheart.”
And so she does. “I know I don’t owe him anything. The way that you said I never owed you anything for being there for me, but I just hope my friendship with him holds the same understanding both ways. If that makes sense?”
“Yeah, but the guy isn’t a normal fucking guy. He views the rest of us as food in his animal kingdom.”
Her smile stretches. “But I only want you to eat me.”
Fuck. I give her the slowest once-over, and she rises and falls on the balls of her feet.
Then the door swings open.
“Which one of you crazies ordered a subscription to Celebrity Crush?” My sharp-jawed brother barrels into the cottage, a bright pink tabloid in hand.
“Why the fuck are you going through our mail?” I retort.
Daisy clutches my arm like she sees an incoming car crash. “Watch out, L—”
Lo collides with the cardboard Connor Cobalt and trips on top of him, simultaneously trying to upright the cutout and not fall. “Jesus…Christ,” he curses.
I start to laugh with Daisy.
My brother straddles a life-sized image of Connor, and he just now registers what he ran into. He gives me a look. “Bro…what is this even doing here?”
Daisy answers, “Just in case he doesn’t show up, we have this version.” I never thought that was the real fucking reason, but subconsciously maybe it was always there.
Before Lo can shift the cardboard, Rose appears in the open doorway. She snorts at the sight, her hands perched on her hips, a small baby bump noticeable from her tight black dress.
“Really, Loren? You’re that starved for time with him?”
Lo fixes the cardboard, no longer tangled with it. “You’re just jealous I get the fake thing and the real thing.”
“Jealous? Please.” She waves at him. “The fake Connor Cobalt is all yours.” She flips her hair off her shoulder and then watches something outside behind her. “Careful over that stone, Moffy.”
The toddlers usually have trouble walking up the cobblestone path.
“And you two”—Rose retrains her gaze on Dais and me—“shouldn’t be padding his ego. It might be his birthday, but he’ll carry this fact into next year.” She glares at the cardboard. “I can hear it now, ‘I’m so important, you all tried to replicate me.’”
“He wouldn’t be wrong,” Lo says.
I groan.
Rose scoffs.
Daisy smiles.
“Let’s just hope it won’t scare him off,” Rose notes as Moffy and Jane enter the cottage.
As fast as they can—which isn’t fast since they’re fucking toddlers—they rush to a mini basketball hoop near the window nook. I drilled it into the wall, so both of them have something different to do when they come over. They dig in a wicker basket for bouncy balls.
Lo forces his attention away from his son. He walks towards me, but I have a feeling he just wants something in the kitchen. “Connor loves himself. I bet this’ll be his favorite thing all year. Besides being friends with me.” He flashes a dry smile.
Rose glares. “His favorite thing is me. Your friendship is in the lower third tier.”
Lo wears mock surprise. “That’s not what he said.”
Rose rolls her eyes but also keeps watch out the door. “You’re right, Loren, he loves himself, but that doesn’t extend to an inferior duplication.” She doesn’t give anyone time to respond. “Beckett and Charlie are in the car, do you mind helping me, Daisy?”
“Sure thing.” She gives a soldier’s salute before leaving my side and exiting with her sister.
Sulli squirms in my arms. She’d rather be crawling around on the floor, so I set her back by her kiddie keyboard.
Lo rummages through my kitchen cupboards, opening and closing half of them.
I follow and notice the tabloid near the sink. I don’t remember ordering a subscription, and I doubt Daisy would. I scowl at our address printed on the front with my name.
Lo slams another cupboard, a bag of chips beneath his arm, but he’s now searching through the pantry.
“What the fuck are you looking for?” I ask.
“Salsa, man.” Agitation sharpens his words. “You can’t have chips without salsa.” His daggered amber eyes meet mine for a fraction of a second. “Have I taught you nothing, big brother?”
“I don’t have any.”
His face falls like I killed something he loves. It’s a fucking expression that nearly makes me respond with, I’ll go out and get some for you right now.
“This party can’t be called a party.” Lo shuts the pantry door. “You know what it is now? A social—the hosts spread out things like hummus and carrots, and they expect everyone to talk long enough that they’ll forget about real goddamn food. You brought me to a social, bro.” He opens his bag of chips. “I’ll never forgive you for this.”
His sarcasm is so thick.
“What is that in your fucking hand?” I question. “That’s real fucking food.”
He crunches on a chip. “It’s not real without salsa.”
For fuck’s sake. I open my fridge and find tomatoes, lime, some onion and…yeah, cilantro. Lo doesn’t really cook, but I do.
While he eats and our children play, I start making his fucking salsa, and I have to ask him something. It’s killing me. I can’t keep it in any fucking longer.
I grab a cutting board, and he sits on the counter beside me. “Something happened yesterday,” I say beneath my breath. I check over my shoulder, but the door is closed and the girls haven’t returned yet.
It’s likely they’re talking in p
rivate by the car.
Lo tenses, a chip stopping midair by his mouth. He drops his hand. “Is it your leg?”
After my climbing accident, my right leg has been fucked, but physical therapy has helped. I don’t have a limp anymore, but the ache has stayed. I ignore the dull throb in my knee, and it only grows if I don’t stretch morning and night.
“No.” I shake my head.
Lo lowers his voice. “Dad?”
“No.”
My relationship with my dad is better than it has been in the past, but I won’t let him watch Sullivan without me there. I never fucking will.
“Look…” I just try to come out with it. “I don’t want to break her fucking heart, but something happened and—”
“Did you fucking cheat on her?” I’ve seen that malicious, spiteful, I will murder you and everything you fucking love look in my brother’s eyes, all directed at me—but not in a long time.
“No, fuck no,” I force.
His cheekbones are weapons directed at me, but he tries to relax. “You suck at this, you know?” He means delivering bad news.
I rake a hand through my hair. “I fucking know.” This hasn’t changed, but at least I’m trying to say it rather than letting these things eat at everyone.
“You’re making it seem worse than I bet it is.”
