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“It’s okay.” Cass’ knee touches mine. He smiles at August, masking his uncomfortableness well. “I saw. They played good, though.”
August grimaces his disagreement. “They’re kinda crap without you.”
“Jesus Christ, kid.” Shooting him a bug-eyed look, I chuck a piece of cornbread at my inquisitive child. He’s never been the best at identifying a sore spot, even worse at avoiding them. “Knock it off.”
“It was a compliment!”
“Little rude, babe.”
“Well, I am a rude little shit.”
I feel my heart drop to my stomach, shattering on its way down.
Fuck.
I didn’t think he heard that. I sent him away precisely so he wouldn’t hear anything like that but obviously, I was too late.
Confusion emanates from the man beside me. “Did someone say that?”
Suddenly, August and I find our food very interesting.
I expect Cass to push. I feel his eyes on me, burning with curiosity. I know if he asks again, I’ll tell, and I’m already mentally scrambling, trying to figure out how I’m gonna relay tonight’s events without bursting into tears.
“I recorded yesterday’s game. You wanna watch with me?”
My flushed son’s brows furrow in unison with mine, our turn to be confused because while we are experts at the subject change, we’re not used to experiencing it. “Okay?”
Leaning back in his seat, Cass stretches a long arm across the back of my mine, gently cupping the nape of my neck. “You wanna watch it with me?”
August drops his head, not quite quick enough to hide the slight upward curve of his mouth. “I guess.”
“I’ll tell Isaac to come over too.”
“Really?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.” Cass raps his knuckles against the table with one hand, squeezes me with the other. “Food first, baseball after.”
It strikes me, as August starts wolfing down his dinner double time, that Cass might just be a natural at this parenting thing. Maybe it’s practice with his nieces and nephews, maybe it’s just in his blood, but he’s good at it. He’s good with August. He’s patient and helpful and he knows how to get what he wants without pushing too much.
The kind of dad August should’ve had. One who asks about his day over dinner, who cares if he burns himself on hot food, who kids and jokes in a way that isn’t hurtful or demeaning. It’s upsetting that he didn’t have that, and I hate that I hope this baby does because August deserved it too and I never want him to think he didn’t. But then I feel bad because what? I want Cass to be a terrible father? To treat his kid like shit too? It’s a horrible, inescapable cyclic hell of guilt, and I can feel myself falling into a spiral.
But I can feel the palm flush against my back too, rubbing slow, soothing circles. The warmth emanating from a chest only a couple inches away. The pressure of lips against my temple, then a forehead. “Food first,” Cass repeats. “Spiral after.”
When I don’t immediately follow his command—feelings of impending doom really spoil a girl’s appetite—he sighs. His touch glides higher, curving around my chin and guiding me to face him. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I register a loud, pointed noise of disgust, but coffee-colored irises are all-consuming. “I’ll make you something else if you want. But you are gonna eat. And then, you’re gonna tell me what happened tonight, okay?”
What am I to do, but nod?
* * *
I blink awake to a dimly lit room, a muted television, and a dead left arm.
Stifling a yawn, I carefully maneuver the tingling limb free from beneath a passed-out August so I can grab my phone from the coffee table. When the clock reads midnight, I internally groan.Crap.
I must’ve fallen asleep. I knew I wasn’t gonna last the whole game but I didn’t have it in me to call time on our night. August was having fun with Izzy, Cass clearly didn’t mind us being here, and I… I was just tired. Emotionally, mentally, physically. And Cass’ sofa is so comfy. And baseball games are solong.
