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“My parents divorced when I was a kid. I lived with my mom until I was fourteen, then she decided she was tired of being a mom. I moved in with my dad and stepmother after that. When I got pregnant, she blamed my dad and the club. Then, after he died, she said some awful things and I haven’t seen or spoken to her since. She tried to reach out a few years ago, said she’s found Jesus, but the damage was done and I hold grudges.” She flashes me a grin, but it doesn’t meet her eyes.
“Seems we both have shitty mothers,” I say, and she nods her agreement. I study her for another moment. “Do you want more kids?” She bites her lip as she shoves her eggs around her plate.
“I’ve thought about it.” She glances at me before quickly dropping her eyes back to her food. “But I’ve never been with anyone long enough for that to even be a consideration.”
“Would you have a kid with me?” I whisper. Her throat bobs before she glances at me again.
“One day,” she says just as quietly. “If that’s what you wanted.”
“I’ve never wanted kids,” I blurt. Her spine stiffens.
“Oh. Yeah. That’s fine.”
“Wait, no.” I let out a breath. “Fuck, I’m not good at this shit. Sometimes I start talking without thinking about what I’m saying. I meant I never wanted kids until I met Ian. Then I realized I was fine being a dad. The more time I’ve spent with him, with you, the more I’ve realized it’s something I want to share with you. I want a mini-me running around.”
“God save us all,” she mutters before laughing. “No, the universe will punish you with a girl.”
“Punish me?”
“Yeah, for being such a man whore. We’ll definitely have a little girl who will be just as crazy as her dad.”
“And as beautiful as her mom.” I tuck a piece of fallen hair behind her ear as I smile. I can almost hear our future daughter running around, squealing for Kennedy to play with her, for me to pick her up and swing her around.
I can see our future, and, fuck, it’s a future I want.
Ian
Enzo’s house is exactly as I remember, down to the old pizza boxes stacked in the corner, to the pile of dishes in the sink. His father, thankfully, is nowhere to be found. His worn recliner is still angled in front of the old television, his ashtray full of discarded, half-smoked cigarettes.
“Why are we here again?” I mumble behind Enzo. I follow him down the short hallway to his room. It’s like a breath of fresh air when he opens the door.
As much of a wreck as the rest of the house is, his room is spotless. But that’s mostly because he barely has anything in his room. All of his important things can fit in his backpack. It makes my heart ache for him, knowing he’s had to go without his entire life so his father can have everything.
“I just need the last of my stuff,” he says as he moves to his dresser. He opens it and rummages around the mostly empty drawer. “My mom’s necklace is in here, and my sketchbook is under the mattress.” I lift his thin twin mattress and gently pull his old, worn sketchbook out.
“You need a new one,” I say, and he lets out a sharp breath.
“With what money?” he mumbles. My throat tightens, but I force myself to swallow past it.
“I can get you one,” I say, and he turns toward me, a small cardboard box clutched in his hand.
“I don’t need you buying me shit.” His voice comes out harder than I expected, and I push my brows together.
“Why are you like this?” I say, throwing my arm at him. “If I want to buy you a sketchbook, I will, and you’ll accept it.”
“I’m not a fucking charity case, Ian,” he snaps. “I can get it myself, and if I can’t afford it, I don’t need it. You’ve already taken me in as a fucking stray. I don’t need you buying me anything else.”
I take a small step toward him, and he shifts his angry eyes to me. They’re lined with tears, and his chin wobbles. He presses his lips together to stop it, but it doesn’t. It just makes it worse.
“I’m not a charity case,” he says again, his voice thick.
“I know,” I murmur. “I never thought you were.” His face stays angry. I grab his hand and stroke my thumb over his knuckles.
We’re still trying to get used to this new dynamic. We’ve been friends forever, and sometimes I forget I can touch him like this. I risk another step toward him, anticipating him to retreat. Instead, he drops his head forward, resting it on my chest. I wrap my other arm around him and rub my hand over his back. I’ve seen Ezra comfort Mom like this, and it seems to help her.
He tries to breathe through his emotions, and I silently let him. There’s nothing I can say, nothing I can promise him that will make things better. He’ll still be unwanted by his father, and abandoned by his mother. She left when he was ten—plenty old enough for him to remember her, and remember her leaving. His father was a dick before that, but after she left, he got worse.
So much fucking worse.
