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“You love it all equally because you’re entirely and unequivocally in love with them. Love isn’t a weakness,” I say with complete certainty.
She smiles a very rare smile, but it lasts shorter than I’d like. “It’s not just about wanting a sister for Jane. Though I want another girl…sooner or later.” She glows at the word later like she hopes for that outcome.
Once she has another girl, we’ve agreed to stop having children. And she clearly wants more.
“Do you have any reservations?” I ask, my hand tightening around hers. I haven’t broached the topic of having more children. I never do after Rose gives birth. It’s her body, her physical timeline, and I’ll always be respectful of her wants and needs.
“It’s been almost a year since the twins,” she says. “I could probably wait another year, but I’ve recovered better than I thought…” Her gaze drifts to Jane who wiggles in her teal tutu, her cat headband sliding back. “Are you holding your bladder?”
Jane shakes her head and tries to fix her headband. I spot her guilt and the fib in her eyes.
So does her mother. Rose points at the bathroom. “Go now.”
“I can’t leave, Mommy!” she whines. “I’m hosing.” She means hosting.
My grin broadens.
Rose rotates more to face Jane. “Hostesses are allowed to excuse themselves to use the toilet, just like every other person. If anyone—including Mr. Lion—gives you heat about it, Mommy will disembowel them.”
“What’s disem-em…” Jane loses track of her thoughts, clutching her tutu, wiggling more.
“Go.” Rose motions to the nearby door, right beside a white bookshelf.
Jane hurries off and closes the door behind her.
Rose captivates me to the point where she has all of my attention. My eyes, my mind, my heart.
She catches me staring and snaps, “What?” Her cheeks flush. “Stop looking at me like that, Richard.”
“Je t’aime.” I love you. I stand, walk around the table, and near my wife. Towering above her, I run my hand across the base of her neck, up to her hair.
A shallow breath expels from her lips, her head near my crotch and eyes at my belt. She strains her neck to look up at me. “I still want to continue working during every pregnancy,” Rose reminds me.
I expected no less. We both enjoy our current schedule, and it won’t shift.
Mondays: I’m at the Cobalt Inc. offices in Philadelphia. Rose works at home and watches our children.
Tuesdays: Rose is at the Hale Co. offices or her boutique in downtown Philadelphia. I work at home and watch our children.
Wednesdays: we both work at home together.
Thursdays: a repeat of Monday
Fridays: a repeat of Tuesday.
Eventually we’ll need at least one more set of trusting hands when we both can’t be home. We’re both in agreement on hiring a nanny in the future.
Beckett and Charlie babble to one another, filling the silence, and my thumb skims Rose’s bottom lip.
I’d take her in the next five minutes, if I could. I’d push her up against our bed and tie her hands behind her back. Spread her legs open. Fit my cock deep inside my wife, fuck her hard until she dizzied.
I wear my desire in my eyes.
She crosses her legs now. “When you were a teenager, did you ever fantasize about me?” Her neck reddens, not in embarrassment but longing.
“Sexually?” I ask.
She nods.
Just as I’m about to answer, the toilet flushes and Jane calls, “Daddy, I can’t reach the sink!”
Rose swats my hand away from her face, about to rise to find the missing stepstool.
“I’ll take care of her.” I can just lift Jane up to the sink. Rose stays seated while I walk to the bathroom. Hand on the knob, I pause and look to Rose. “We’ll continue this later, darling.”
She nods tersely, but I’m not sure if she’ll ask that same question again. I can’t promise that I’ll bring it up soon, but we have years. Many, many years together.
{ 5 }
August 2018
The Golf Club
South Hampton, New York
LOREN HALE
By the time we reach the seventh hole at the charity golf tournament, Maximoff is done. Boredom in his forest-green eyes, he rests his cheek against the golf cart seat, nearly slumped over.
“Same,” I tell him, picking out a club from my bag, my enthusiasm worn-out.
It’s not like I had much at the start. Not like Connor, who wagered a bet with my older brother before teeing off the first hole. Not like Ryke who curses beneath his breath with each stroke, pointing his titanium driver at Connor every time our friend outperforms him.
Which is 7 times out of 10.
But no one should confuse my lack of enthusiasm for apathy.
I know it’d be easy to—because in my early twenties, my angst could fill a goddamn ocean and float a shitty fleet of naval ships—but now, things are different.
I’m different. For better or for worse.
And one look at my three-year-old son—his soft cheek on the white seat, wearing tiny orange Vans, his dark brown hair combed neatly, his little legs hanging pitifully and lips puckered in a childlike pout—it’s all enough.
Regardless of what else follows.
I lean my shoulder on the golf cart and nudge his foot with my driver. Moffy lifts his head up to me.
I gape, widening my eyes. “He’s alive. Jesus Christ.”
His big woeful eyes might as well say, I’m miserable, Daddy. I thought only a sad Lily could crush my black heart, but seeing my son upset and downcast nearly obliterates it.
I try to remember that he’s a three-year-old. Lily and I put cooked carrots in front of him, and he acted like we served him pig intestines. One boring day isn’t the end of the world, but there’s this part of me—this place belonging to my childhood with Lily—that screams to give this kid better than boring, better than unhappy. Better than lonely.
Better than what we had.
I take a seat beside him. He doesn’t stir, but I hear his heavy sigh. I prop my foot on the golf cart dash and extend my arm across the back of the seat. “Golf isn’t my favorite thing either.”
Moffy mumbles, “Then why are we here?”
He asks a lot of questions, and I never thought I’d have to explain the world to anyone. Especially a toddler who digests my words like they’re Holy Scripture. And he has no comprehension of sarcasm.
Through the windshield, I watch Ryke tee off first. He concentrates on his swing, and Connor stands nearby just to give him a hard time. Ryke flips him off
, but most of the other teams are too far ahead of us to see. Only event photographers straggle behind, and Ryke couldn’t care less if they capture him giving Connor the middle finger.
It’s not like he hasn’t done it before.
Gathering my thoughts, I focus back on Moffy. “We’re here because we’re really lucky—you, me, your mommy, your aunts and uncles—we all have a lot of toys and nice things, and we take time to give back.” We could just write a check and not come, but showing up to an event promotes the charity too, so we do both. “Do you want to help kids who might be sick or who don’t have as many toys as you?”
Moffy nods almost instantly, faster than I would have as a kid. He straightens up, the steering wheel too high and far away from his small body. He fiddles with his shoelaces. “Is-is that…why the bug people follow us? Because we have lots of toys?”
Bug people.
My stomach knots.
Bug people—it’s what Jane and Moffy have started calling paparazzi, who hide behind cameras. They see the fat lenses and blinding flashes as an appendage like a nose or a mouth, unable to spot an actual face.
Connor said it was ironic. They dehumanize us, and our children are beginning to dehumanize them.
Moffy waits for my answer.
I’m stumped for a second. I’ve never considered myself good with kids. I never aspired to be a father—I never aspired to be much of anything. But I’ve tried.
I’ve tried damned hard to be a decent dad. No. A great dad. Because my kid deserves nothing less than that.
I can’t tell a toddler the truth: hey, little man, we’re famous because Mommy is an heiress to a soda empire and someone told the press about her sex addiction. And it gets worse. That “someone” happens to be your uncle’s mother. Surprise.
I drop my arm onto his shoulders. “You know why they follow us?” My voice is edged like usual. I can’t help that, but he listens intently, waiting. And I say, “Because they love you and they love your cousins and your mommy.” Every goddamn word hurts.
The paparazzi tormented Daisy, caused Lily to fear leaving her house, and profited off of more false stories than true ones. But I can’t have my kid soulfully, gut-wrenchingly hating something that I know will always be there. If he believes they do what they do out of love, then maybe he won’t grow up bitter and resentful.
