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Although, I think I would rather risk the emotional turmoil of having real sex while in a fake relationship with an imminent expiration date than give a blowjob.
I wish I could talk to Luna about it. Or anyone, really. It’s really weird when something momentous happens in your life but you can’t tell anyone because they already think that thing is happening. The shift in mine and Cass’ dynamic, no one knows about it, no one notices it, because to everyone around us, nothing has changed.
It says a lot, I think and fear in equal measure, that no one can tell the difference.
“Fine. I believe you.” Luna bumps my hip, pointing out Cass as he emerges from the shed. “That is not a freshly-fucked man.”
The verbiage is a little much but yeah, I agree. It’s a very stressed, serious man, approaching us with long, resolute strides. He’s got his Coach Face on as he knocks on the passenger window of my car, waiting for August to clamber out before asking, tone serious but soft, “You good?”
August nods, and Cass does too, sharp and professional and impartial in the way he warned us he was going to have to be. But as we make our way towards the other parents gathering, I don’t miss how he discreetly claps August on the shoulder, and I definitely hear him whisper, “I’ve got your back. Team Lane.”
Then he glances back at me. Mouths,Team Lane.
And I am a puddle.
* * *
“What the hell are you wearing?”
Frowning, I glance down at my outfit. Shorts, a baseball jersey, and Converse that I thought looked cute until five seconds ago, in an effortless way that contradicts the manufactured waves in my hair, the gel taming my brows, and the mascara making my lashes longer and darker than usual.
I didn’t put in extra effort this morning because mine and Cass’ relationship has shifted, nor because I’m meeting his other family, so to speak.
I did not.
“What?” I try not to whine, frustrated that the extra effort I absolutely did not make was apparently for nought. “Was I supposed to wear heels?”
Staring at the material on my chest like it’s personally offending him, Cass practically growls. “That’s a Devils jersey.”
“So?”
“Turn around.”
I do, and the man surveying me scoffs loudly, a sound of utter betrayal. “That’s aSal Rodésjersey.”
It’s remarkable how he manages to make the name sound like a curse. “It was on sale.”
Cass shakes his head in disgust. “August, my man, you let her leave the house in that?”
My kid shrugs. “She thinks he’s hot.”
“Sunday.”
“August has a poster of him!”
Eyes flitting towards the sky, Cass clutches his chest. “Is this heartbreak?”
“You are so dramatic.”
And he gets even more dramatic when I try to round the hood of his truck and he freaking body blocks me. “You’re not getting in my car wearing that.”
“Are you serious?”
“Deadly.”
I shoot August a bug-eyed,‘can you believe this guy?’look and he snickers, rolling his eyes as he gets in the car. Cass lets him—he hasn’t committed the grievous offense of wearing the wrong jersey, although Cass does eye his Wolves one like he knows it’s not the real thing.
Hands on my hips, I cock my head at that big, dramatic baby daddy of mine. “What am I supposed to wear?”
