Page 28 of Xavier

"Oh, fuck. Fuck." I groan as I come. My eyes never leaving hers, making sure she knows it's her that makes me feel this way.

My head falls back onto the pillow, dizzy.

God, I want her.

I want all of her.

All of that sweet, sunshiny, sexy, effervescent, creative body and mind that makes her her.

For all of the ways she makes me me.

***

The hallway light is on when I get up to get a glass of water; there’s a flash of a figure running between the kitchen and my mother's bedroom.

"Oh, Xavier! Thank god, you're awake. I have to go into work, Peggy's sick, so I'm taking her shift. I'm so tired but you know I have to take it." She dabs at her face with a sponge covered with something like putty to hide her tired eyes. My heart twinges for her, but also for myself.

"Mom, I've got plans today."

"Honey, I don't have time to discuss this. I need you to take care of the boys. Okay?"

I feel my fists curl into a ball. But I know it's not her I'm mad at. She doesn't deserve me making her feel even worse.

"Yeah, ok. Don't worry about it. I'll... I'll take them to the park or something."

"Oh, thank you! I promised them something fun this weekend, they'd love that."

"I’ll think of something,” I nod, even while my heart sinks.

She throws me a tired wave over her shoulder as she disappears out the backdoor.

"Has mommy gone to work again?" Brian asks, startling me. He looks so small, hidden in the shadows, rubbing his eyes as he stands in his pajamas.

"Yeah, buddy.” I go over and give his shoulder a squeeze.

"But she said she was goi-..."

"She couldn't help it. We'll do something fun today, okay? How 'bout we eat cereal from the box and watch some cartoons?"

His face lights up. "Without the twins?"

"What twins?" I answer and give him a wink and he giggles.

By nine a.m., all three boys are up, breakfasted, dressed, but nowhere near ready to leave the house. I’m not sure what it is, but something about needing to leave the house at a certain time seems to trigger their bladders. By the time the backdoor swings closed behind us, it’s almost ten o’clock.

"Fuck," I curse under my breath, checking my watch, one hand on each twin as I yell at Brian every fifteen seconds to stay close as we head to the basketball court.

"You said a bad word,” Michael, the younger twin points out.

"No, I didn't.” Sometimes it’s hard to refrain when they’re around.

"You said ‘fut’ I heard you,” he insists.

"Fine, I said ‘fut.’ Don't tell anyone."

"What will you give me?" he asks, and I realize four-year-olds don’t get enough credit for being the master manipulators they are.

"Well, how ‘bout I let you say ‘fut' one more time, but you can’t tell Mom."