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“Ties,” Rhett whined. He kicked his feet, and I had to quickly shift him so he didn’t hit me in the nuts.
“Hey, don’t kick me.” My words weren’t angry or even stern, but Rhett started crying again, and Emilia fluttered closer.
“It’s okay, it’s—”
I glanced at her. “He almost kicked me in the balls.”
“Mama,” Rhett sniffled, reaching for Emilia.
“It’s okay, buddy,” she said, meeting my eyes in apology as I handed him over.
“Looks like someone wiped out,” my mom said, opening the kitchen door for us.
“Rhett fell off the platform,” Myla replied guiltily.
“Accidents happen,” Emilia said, smiling over at her. “I should’ve double-knotted his shoes, I guess.”
“I’ll get some Band-Aids and the peroxide,” my mom said, hurrying back out of the kitchen. She paused and looked over her shoulder at me. “I ordered food, and can you turn on the dishwasher? Titus just hopped in the shower, and I owe him one for doing laundry right when I was trying to run a bath the other night.”
“Your mom hasn’t changed at all,” Emilia said, setting Rhett down on the counter. He’d quieted down again, but I had a feeling he was still on the edge.
“Nope.” I moved around her to start the dishwasher.
“Aw, man,” Myla said, leaning down to look at Rhett’s knees. “You ripped your pants.”
“Oh no,” Emilia mumbled grimly as Rhett began crying in earnest again.
“Owie,” he sobbed.
I wanted to do something, say something, but it seemed like anything and everything was setting him off. Instead, I just stood there like a dumbass, hovering.
“Hey, bud, look at me,” Emilia said softly, straightening out Rhett’s leg. “Look, it’s okay. Totally fine. And we can put a Band-Aid on it.”
“You can?” he asked, hiccuping.
“Promise.”
“I’ve got Band-Aids of every shape,” my mom announced. “But these philistines don’t like the cool patterned ones anymore, so we don’t have any of those.”
“Philistine?” Myla looked at my mom in confusion.
“A cultureless swine,” my mom said with a flourish, grinning at my sister. “Here’s the peroxide, Em.”
My breath left me in a quiet whoosh at my mom’s casual nickname for Emilia. I was struggling. Every breath I took was painful, and I didn’t know what to fucking do, but I guess my mom just planned on starting back up where we’d left off—like nothing had even happened. I grit my teeth until my jaw popped.
“Whoa, little man,” Rumi said as he strode into the kitchen. “Did you get in a fight with a raccoon?”
“Owie,” Rhett sniffled, watching as his mom wiped at the scratches on his palms.
“Does it hurt?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, looks like it.” Rumi sidled up close and looked down at Rhett’s hands. “But you see the bubbles? It foams up like that as it cleans all the germs out. Pretty cool, right?”
“Ouch,” Rhett whined, trying to pull his hand away.
“Stop it, Rhett,” Emilia ordered, her voice firm but gentle as she continued to clean out his scratches. “I’m almost done.”
