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A bitch move, sure, but it saved us from getting our ears clipped by Da.
“They give me an upset stomach,” I told him.
He frowned at that, perturbed enough to study me, before he swiveled his focus back to this show he was watching—that I didn’t mind—calledTheUmbrella Academy. I figured I was lucky that I got him at the age where he at least didn’t want to watchDora thefuckingExplorer.
If boys even watched that.
Hell, were boys even supposed to watch certain things, and girls too? I knew that new age shit about boys being able to wear pink and girls being allowed to play with toy cars was a ‘thing’ now… the thought of him wearing pink in front of Da did make me want to laugh though. He’d thought I was gay because I liked classical music and appreciated the arts. If I’d worn pink, his attempts to scare me straight would have transmogrified, worsening a thousandfold.
I reached up and rubbed my eyes, just to hide my reaction in case Shay misunderstood, and thought I was laughing at him or something, when I wasn’t. It was the kind of laughter that’d lead to tears.
For all he was young, Seamus had a habit of reading into stuff, was quite perceptive for a kid his age. At fourteen, I’d been concerned about my dick, the pussy I could shove it in, and how fast I could come. In between that, I’d worried about learning the ropes, figuring out how to throat punch someone to death—and never quite managing to do it—and trying to avoid Da’s fists. All in all, fourteen had been a good year. Things had gone to shit around twelve months or so later.
He cleared his throat, dragging me from my memories. “Mom will make you a sandwich if you ask.”
For someone who hovered around all the time, I rarely saw her. Even if I felt her presence.
“Where is she?”
“The kitchen.” His lips twitched. “It’s the only room she says is normal.”
My brows rose. “What’s abnormal about the rest of the place?”
“I mean, I don’t care. It’s pretty neat. Well, apart from the fact that I keep bumping into shit.”
“That’s why your shins are all bruised?” I asked, eying his legs which were bare thanks to his basketball shorts.
“Yup.”
“You mean she doesn’t like the decor?” I queried when he didn’t carry on, his focus reverting to the plot on TV.
He watched the shows with the subtitles on, which was strangely addictive. It had annoyed the shit out of me at first, but now I spent more time reading the damn subtitles than watching the show.
And when he switched between Mandarin and Russian? I wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or annoyed—annoyed because I couldn’t understand those subtitles.
“Nah. It’s not her thing. Plus…”
“Plus, what?” I prompted, when he fell silent.
“She likes having all her stuff around her, you know? It’s like her collection. She’s spent a long time building it up.”
“An art collection?”
My boy hummed as he scratched his chest with the remote. He was a little scrawny, but the definition in his arms and chest told me he’d been working out some. From all the football games we watched, I’d learned he’d made it onto his team at his old school, but not in the position he wanted.
I knew that had something to do with a love for the game and a desire for cheerleader pussy.
Not that he’d said as much, but I read between the lines—as well as his blush.
Amusement filtered through me, because I liked this shit. It was like learning a new language or something, trying to figure out what my kid was actually saying without saying it.
I didn’t think he was aware of what I picked up on about him without him really telling me that much.
“It’s like an art collection, but it’s more like the stuff she picked up along the way.”
“Along the way where?”
“Here and there,” he said, then his grin turned wicked. “Guess how many countries I’ve visited?”
