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Cass can’t know how much those words mean to August. How much he needs them after the day we’ve had. He can’t know, which means he says them because he means them, not because he’s trying to cheer August up.
As I watch my boy brighten, something queasy settles in my gut. Suddenly, I’m not as eager to cross the threshold. Suddenly, I question why I felt compelled to come here. Suddenly, I’m not too fond of Cass being the person I run to when I’m upset because this thing between us? Already complicated. Missing him this past week? Extra complicated. Relying on him more than I already am? The last thing it needs is an added layer of complexity, another sense of dependency.
Fingers band around my bicep and shake gently. “You okay there, sunshine?” Cass tugs me forward a step, the wooden porch beneath my feet becoming hardwood floor. “Did my abs break you?”
I blink myself back to reality at the same time I realize why I came here; I knew he’d make me feel better.
“TMZ was right.” I poke him in those very abs. “You are looking a little pudgy.”
With another tug, Cass is able to close the door behind me. “Stop being mean to me. I’ll fall in love with you.”
“Where I’m from, threatening a lady is very impolite.” As I toe off my shoes, Cass guides my bag off my shoulder, hanging it off the stairs bannister. “You sure you have enough?”
“I’m sure.” A hand settles between my shoulder blades, urging me further into the house. “I was gonna bring it over to Amelia’s tomorrow. Didn’t know if she knew August is vegetarian.”
“She does.” She asked. She also asked for August's favorite foods, compiled a list of recipes she deemed suitable, and sent to me for confirmation.
A woman I’ve spoken to a handful of times knows my son doesn’t eat meat when his father doesn't.
Nice, huh?
“You sure you don’t mind us being here?”
“I want you guys here,” Cass says without hesitation, not a flicker of doubt or deception crossing his handsome face. “I always want you guys here.”
Cass guides me onto a kitchen stool, stroking the length of my back before disappearing into what must be a laundry room because he returns fully-clothed—if a threadbare, off-white tank top counts asclothes. Shooting me a wink, he rounds the island to help August with the enormous pot sitting on the stove. A red Le Creuset Dutch oven—in the back of my mind, the optimist youth who used to create Pinterest boards of her dream kitchen sighs dreamily.
“I’m not that hungry,” I try to protest when Cass spoons enough for all three of us into one bowl, slopping what must be a whole avocado’s worth of guacamole and at least half a block of shredded cheddar on top. He ignores me in favor of snagging an iced tea from the fridge, his free hand tossing a dishcloth at August.
“Careful.” He nods at the cast iron skillet my son was about to grab with his bare hands. “It’s hot.”
With a serious nod, August heeds his warning, using the dishcloth as an oven mitt while he holds the skillet steady and cuts out an enormous hunk of cornbread. “She didn’t eat dinner,” my traitorous son tattles as he adds it to my monstrous meal. “And she had hot Cheetos for lunch.”
Jesus. Two minutes of reconciliation and they’re already ganging up on me.
Cass chuckles quietly as he ruffles August’s hair—I definitely do not tear up at how my son leans into the touch and smiles. “I thought you were hanging out with Izzy tonight.”
August shoots me a look. I wrinkle my nose and shrug; I’d rather not relive our disastrous evening but I’m not gonna ask him to lie either. August must share the sentiment, though, because he shrugs too. “I had homework.”
Cass nudges me. “Hardass.”
I nudge him back. “We were on our way over there.”
“Got lost?”
“Smelled the chili.”
Speaking of; balancing a bowl in either hand, Cass gestures for us to move to the dining table. He’s got a thing about eating at the table, I learned pretty quickly. It’s cute. Wholesome. So drastically different to the sit-down dinners I used to have with my parents.
So drastically different to the meal we couldn't even get through with John.
Cass sits beside me, August across from us. Both of them watch eagle-eyed as I shovel food into my mouth—counting my bites, I swear. Mindless conversation flows easily, and when it doesn’t, that’s fine; it’s comfortable anyways.
Mostly.
“Did you see the Wolves lost their last game?”
“August,” I warn quietly.
