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“I don’t have a car shirt.” I shook my head. “But I have a couple motorcycle shirts.”
“Motorcycle,” Rhett replied, his eyes lighting up. He made a sound that was remarkably similar to the roar of Harley pipes.
“Whoa, man,” I said, falling back on my heels, making him giggle. He made the sound again. “You’re good at that!”
“Yeah, he likes motorcycles,” Emilia murmured. “Don’t you, Rhett?”
“No surprise there,” my mom said, her voice trembling.
“Mom, I need to do some laundry. I’m not goin’ to the laundromat again. The little old ladies always hit on me, and I’m startin’ to have a hard time fightin’ them off—” Rumi called out from the front of the house. “Who’s car is out front? I swear it looks just like the one—”
He came to a stunned stop as he reached the kitchen, his mouth dropping open in surprise. “Emilia?”
“Hey, Rum,” Emilia said, straightening up. “How’ve you been?”
“Holy shit,” he shouted, dropping the garbage bag of laundry as he lurched for her. He didn’t hesitate for a second before wrapping her up in a bear hug and spinning her around in a circle. “Where the hell have you been, sprite?”
“That’s a good question,” I said. I didn’t want to touch her, but the ease in which he’d done it made something like jealousy flare hot in my chest.
Rumi looked down at me and then at Rhett, and dropped Emilia abruptly onto her feet again.
“Who are you?” he asked Rhett in confusion.
Rhett immediately clammed up and his thumb went back into his mouth.
“You had a kid,” my brother said dumbly, his tone still incredulous.
“This is Rhett,” Emilia confirmed softly.
“Hey Rhett,” Rumi said, still staring at my son. “I’m Rumi.”
“Rumi,” Rhett mumbled, tipping his head back to look at his mom.
“Yep, that’s your name, too, huh?” Her eyes met mine and she looked away quickly. “Can you say your whole name?”
“Rhett Michael RumiHawtorne,” Rhett said. He’d clearly practiced it.
Emilia nodded. “Rhett Michael Rumi Hawthorne.”
“You named him after me?” Rumi asked in disbelief.
Emilia shrugged and reached up to brush her hair out of her face. She looked embarrassed.
The room was silent and when Rhett reached for Emilia, she immediately lifted him into her arms. As he pressed his face into her neck, she tilted her head down by his, whispered something I couldn’t hear.
“It’s just a little overwhelming,” she said to the room apologetically, rubbing our son’s back.
He was so tall that his feet hung halfway to her knees.
“I know the feeling,” I muttered, running my hand down my face.
“Michael—” she said softly.
I cut her off with a jerk of my head. I didn’t want to talk to her. Not yet. I didn’t want to hear any excuse or explanation; I didn’t want to deal with any of it—not now. Not when I was looking at the cowlick on the back of my son’s head for the first time.
I didn’t have the bandwidth to deal with anything else. Just him.
“Why don’t I order us some lunch,” my mom said, her eyes on Emilia. “You guys are staying for lunch?”
