Page 97 of Scoring Eden

Macon’s bare feet are poking out the bottom of his comforter, toes wiggling, as I perch on the edge of his bed. The lights are out, save for the new space-themed projector I bought with Aspen today that now paints galaxies and shooting stars across the walls and ceiling.

“So, do I read you a bedtime story or something?” I ask, scanning to see if I can spot where he’s hidden Mr. Snuggles.

I think back to when he showed me his room back at Eden’s apartment, and I thought I’d seen him hide something under his covers. That’s making a whole lot more sense now.

He giggles. “No, I can read on my own. We can just chat or something.”

“Okay.” I readjust myself on the bed so I can see him better, just as I catch his fingers moving to a lump beneath his pillow that I hadn’t noticed before. “What you got there, buddy?”

His face flames, his hand shooting back to where it was. “Nothing.”

Fuck Sebastian for making this kid feel ashamed of having a stuffie. What kind of father makes his own son feel like shit for sleeping with something that comforts him? The kind of guy who threatens to take a kid away from the only real parent he’s ever known, that’s who.

“You know what…” Forcing down my anger, I shoot Macon a reassuring smile. “I want to introduce you to someone.”

I dash across the hallway to my bedroom and take what I need out of a dust-sprinkled shoebox in the closet. Macon is sitting up in bed when I return, propped up against the headboard and looking so tiny in the California king.

“This is Pig.”

I present the ragged, once-pink-but-now-a-queasy-sort-of-greige stuffie to him with a flourish, using my fingers to hold out its one good arm for Macon to shake.

“Hi, Pig.” Macon looks my once-beloved stuffie right in its buttonless eyes.

God, this kid is so fucking cute.

“Pig is my friend,” I tell him. “He used to sleep with me every night until he got too worn out for me to cuddle, so he sleeps in his own bed now.”

I’m embellishing the truth a little. Okay, I’m outright lying. I did used to sleep with Pig every night until an asshole kid from the children’s home amputated his arm. I was eleven and chose to hide him in a box under my bed after that. I only got him out again once Brynn and I had moved in with Jack and Libby, our adopted parents.

After everything I’d already lost, I didn’t want to lose him too.

Macon’s eyes widen, his cheeks flushed with excitement now rather than embarrassment. “You have a stuffie?”

“Yep.” I nod my head a little too boisterously. “And I’m a super-cool soccer player.”

His face lights up, eyes sparkling like the stars spinning on the ceiling above him. His lip disappears between his teeth as he contemplates something then comes to a decision.

His hands move cautiously beneath his pillow until the hint of soft gray fluff appears at his chest. He cradles the little hippo beneath his chin, fingers twisting into his flimsy limbs, and searches my face for disapproval.

“Who’s this?”

“Mr. Snuggles,” he says in a small voice. “I’ve had him since I was a baby.”

“That’s awesome.” I grin to alleviate any doubt he had that I’ll respond at all like his father. “And it’s a much better name than Pig.”

He snorts. “Mom named him, I think.”

That tracks. I can’t imagine Sebastian, the toxically masculine, stick-up-his-ass dickhead would name a stuffie something so wholesome—or even name a stuffie at all, unless it was something super macho like Tank or Agamemnon.

“When did you get Pig?” he asks.

I try not to let it, but my mind wanders back through my childhood. Snapshots of smiles, dancing in the kitchen with my mom, and riding on the back of the mower with my dad filter through my mind on a film reel.

It pauses on the first time I met Brynn. This red-faced little thing in a car seat as my parents carried her into the house, her fists swallowed inside mittens as she flailed her arms and punched out the message that she was either starving or dissatisfied with her new living arrangements. Dad had knelt down beside me and held out Pig, telling me it was a gift from my new little sister as a premature thank you for always looking out for her.

I swallow down the flood of emotion the memory brings and blink away the heat behind my eyes. “My sister gave him to me when I was little,” I tell Macon. “Brynn. You’ve met her a few times, remember?”

He nods. “Mom always says that whenever I miss her, I should hug Mr. Snuggles as hard as I can, and wherever she is, she’ll feel it.”