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Sliding my fingers under my sweater, I hold Kaleb’s eyes as I pull down my shorts and slip them off my legs. My top hangs just below my ass, and I cock my head, watching his gaze falter as he drops it to my legs for a moment. I’m staying here. He’s not making me run. Or cry. He might not like someone new in the house—or a girl in the house—but I didn’t ask for this, either.
I sit there, showing him that he won’t make me run and hide anymore, and when he relaxes back into his chair, the tension in his muscles underneath his shirt easing, I think I finally have.
But then I watch as he slides his spoon into his bowl of oatmeal and lifts it up, facing me instead of putting it into his mouth.
“Kaleb, no.” Jake moves for him.
But he flings the tip of the utensil, the glob of oatmeal on the end launching across the table. I jerk my face to the side, squeezing my eyes shut just in time for it to land across my jaw, the warm goo splattering across my face.
“Goddammit!” Jake barks and rises, reaching for Kaleb.
But I interject, swallowing the ache in my chest. “It’s okay.”
“What the hell is the matter with you?” Jake yells at him, fisting his shirt.
“It’s okay,” I say louder, letting the mess stick to my skin and not making any move to clean it.
But Noah scolds him. “Kaleb…”
Jake pulls Kaleb to his feet.
Stop!” I blurt out. “It’s okay.”
Jake darts his eyes over his shoulder to me. “It’s not okay.”
“It’s how babies communicate,” I explain.
He narrows his eyes, and I look to Kaleb, lifting my chin an inch.
“Right?” I taunt him. “They throw things, because they can’t use their words.” I pick a glob off my face and whip it into my bowl. “Did you want more? Is that what you’re trying to tell me, Kaleb?”
I pinch the fingers of each hand together and bob the tips of my right hand and left hand together. “Like this,” I instruct him. “More.”
Like babies who learn sign language to communicate before they can talk. Except Kaleb can talk. And write and sign. I used to think he just didn’t want to communicate, but no. He has no trouble communicating.
“Can you do that?” I ask him, making my voice light and sugary like I’m talking to a child. “Mooooore.”
He growls, throws his father off, and grabs the table, flipping it over. I gasp, watching the table crash to the floor on its side, everything on top spilling to the tile. Dishes break, the oa
tmeal in the pot splatters across the refrigerator, and Noah’s juice hits Jake’s jeans before shattering on the floor.
I can’t tell what’s happening on Jake’s or Noah’s faces, but I don’t move as I try to hide how my heart hammers in my chest.
I look up at Kaleb and almost smile, despite the fear. He’s losing his mind.
And he’s mean.
Did I just win and now he’ll stop?
Or did I make it worse and now I have to wait for him to strike again?
Before anyone moves, he’s gone. Spinning around, he walks out of the kitchen, and I hear the door open and slam shut as he leaves the house.
Unfortunately, he can’t go far, though.
Jake starts to follow him, but I call out. “Stop.”
It’s between Kaleb and me.
