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“Break that girl’s heart and I’ll be very disappointed.”
“Because you like her?”
Mom moves her palm to my cheek, patting gently. “Because you do.”
* * *
I curse my too-generous family as I clamber up the stairs carrying twice my bodyweight in gifts.
They’re ridiculous. I know I’m not exactly an understated, frugal man but fuck me. Do we need three diaper bins in three different pastel shades? Enough clothes to last a year without washing a thing? Sleep sacks of every shade and variety? Half this shit’s going in a donation pile but for now, I need it out of my living room. So people can actually do things like, y’know, sit down.
Kicking the ajar nursery door open, I jolt in surprise. “August?” I squint at the boy sitting on the floor, his back against the wall. “What’re you doing in here?”
“Nothing.” August sniffs, the back of his hand swiping beneath his nose. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. You’re allowed in here.” Depositing the first of many loads of gifts in the corner, I shake out my strained arms. “You alright?”
“Uh-huh.”
Convincing.“Want me to get your mom?”
“No.”
“Wanna talk about it?”
He doesn’t say yes. But he doesn’t say no either. When a full minute passes and he doesn’t tell me to piss off, I take it as a good sign.
Approaching him slowly, I sink down beside him. “If you were writing in your journal right now, what would you say?”
August frowns at his hands. “Dunno.”
I knock my knee against his. “C’mon. Pretend you’re writing to me.”
His frown deepens, bordering on a glare, but still, he makes no move to leave, nor does he indicate he wants me too. I give him a minute. I let him sort through what I’m sure is a very messy, confused stream of consciousness until finally, something comes out. “I hate my dad.”
Okay. I can work with that.
“I hate your dad too.” I think hate is too light a word, really, for what I feel for John. It definitely is for the downright vicious feeling that surged through me when two people I care about turned up at my door, red-eyed and defeated and he was to blame. “He treats you and your mom like crap.”
“Yeah.” August rests his chin on his knees. “He’s so mean to her, Cass.”
Deja vu washes over me. “And to you.”
“I don’t care.”
God, these two.
Slipping my arm around his shoulders, I tell him the same thing I told his mother. “I do.”
“Because you like my mom.”
For such a smart boy, he can be so oblivious sometimes.
Or maybe it’s not that. Maybe it’s him seeking affirmation, confirmation that we’ve got our own little thing going on between us, independent of Sunday. When he fixes big, vulnerable eyes on me, I decide that’s definitely it. The kid is so unfamiliar with affection—or too familiar with the fleeting kind—he has to triple check it’s real.
“I do care about your mom,” I tell him, and I mean it more than I’m willing to admit. “But I care a lot about you too.”
“It’s not the same.” His gaze sweeps across the room, so fuckingsad. “You’ll care about the baby more.”
