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“I love you, too, Mommy.”
I’m mush in this kid’s hands. I walk to the door and let Cooper say his good night. It’s more involved with a secret handshake that I’m not privy to, and I think there are two bops on the head followed by a bro-hug, as Reed calls it. Cooper has definitely made up for lost time.
I hear Reed’s door closing as I slip off my pants and pull on a pair of sleep shorts. Cooper enters our room and closes the door with the added click of the lock. He stayed that first night and just kind of never left. We made it official when he sold his condo in Manhattan last month. “How much did you hear?”
“All of it.” I smirk. “How bad a hit did your pride take over the car?”
Chuckling, he starts undressing. “The car is yours. The paperwork has been filed for the change in ownership.”
I still don’t understand why this was important to him. Doesn’t he understand that a car will never replace the man? But there’s no use arguing when it’s already a done deal. Anyway, we’ve moved into the stage of what’s mine is his and what’s his is mine, so it doesn’t matter.
He’s so good to me, but more importantly, he’s amazing with Reed. I smile. “I know your job makes you an expert, but being a dad comes natural to you, Cooper.”
He looks up after setting his clothes on a chair. “Yeah, you think so?”
“I couldn’t have asked for a better father for my child, or future children.”
We stand across the room, suddenly still with our eyes fixed on each other. I didn’t realize the gravity of my words until after I said them. It wasn’t planned. Only how I feel.
“Do you mean that?”
“I do.” Our voices are just whispers between us, but the emotions are felt loud and clear. Even with only a lamp on, I can see the light reflected in his eyes just before he drops his head and wipes across his face.
When he looks up, he says, “I didn’t even think I wanted kids. All I saw were people who hated the burden until I went to Patrice’s house. I saw the difference and changed after that. I knew if I had a child, it would be like that. They’d know that they’re the center of my universe.” He walks over and says, “Along with my wife.”
“What about girlfriend?”
“You’re more to me than that word can ever describe.” Bringing my hand to his mouth, he kisses it. “I love you, babe.”
“I love you, too.” He returns to collect his wallet from his pants pocket and sets it on the desk.
I fold down the blankets so the bed is ready when we are, then sit on the end of the mattress. “We never talked about our relationship with Reed. He might not understand what we are to each other or how he fits into that picture.”
“He knows.”
“How?”
“Because we’ve shown him, Story.” He sits next to me, our hands always coming together like a magnet to steel. “The other stuff is, it’s just words kids his age don’t really understand. They’re commonly used labels, but they don’t know what they mean until you show them. We’re doing that every day.”
I lean my head on his shoulder. “He’s learning love by example.”
“He had a great head start because of you.”
Although Reed has taken to Cooper, I’ve struggled with when we should tell him he’s his father. Cooper hasn’t asked and would never put any pressure on me to rush things, but I know he wants that despite the labeling of our relationship conversation.
I’m Mom. It’s a label I’m most proud of.
He’s Dad. It’s time Reed knows.
When I lift my head, I say, “You’ve never asked me why I named him Reed.”
Cooper’s gaze falls to our clasped hands, and he turns them over. If it were free, he’d be running it through his hair. I just know it, so I hold him tighter. He looks up and asks, “Why?”
“So you’d always be a part of him.” His gulp is hard as he swallows down my words. I add, “But that was before I realized he’d be your twin.”
Laughter chokes from his throat, and he smiles. “It’s kind of hard to miss the resemblance, huh?”
“Yeah, cutest kid ever. I think we should tell Reed you’re his dad.”
Cooper freezes. Literally doesn’t move a muscle as he stares at me.
“Are you okay, Cooper?”
He blinks first and then seems to come to life—a shake of the head, his shoulders rounding, and a scrub of his face all happen before his eyes return to mine. “Fine.” His grin grows like a weed in sunshine. “I’m great.” There’s no hand running through his hair or shoving his hands in his pockets . . . not that he has pockets in his boxer briefs.
